HUNTING 
WITHOUT  A  GUN 


ROWLAND  E.  ROBINSON 


- 


Books  by 
Rowland  E.  Robinson 


Danvis  Folks 
Danvis  Pioneers 
Hero  of  Ticonderoga   - 
Sam  Level's  Camps 
Sam  Level's  Boy 
Uncle  Lisha's  Outing 
Uncle  Lisha's  Shop     - 
New    England    Fields 
Woods 


and 


•25 
•25 
•75 
.00 

•25 
•25 
•25 

•25 


ROWLAND   E.    ROBINSON. 


Hunting  Without  a  Gun 

AND  OTHER  PAPERS 


BY  ROWLAND   E.   ROBINSON 


WITH     ILLUSTRATIONS     BY     RACHAEL     ROBINSON 


NEW   YORK 

FOREST  AND  STREAM  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 
1905 


COPYRIGHT,   1905,  BY 
FOREST  AND  STREAM  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 


Forest  and  Stream  Press 
New  York,  N.  Y.,  U.S.A. 


CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

HUNTING  WITHOUT  A  GUN i 

IN  SEARCH  OF  NOTHING 6 

IN  THE  SPRING  WOODS 10 

THE  SAVED  PLACES 17 

LITTLE  OTTER 23 

THE  PATH  OF  BOATLESS  GENERATIONS.  .  39 

DOWN  AMONG  THE  FISHES — 1 57 

DOWN  AMONG  THE  FISHES — II 8 1 

LANDLORD  DAYTON'S  SHOOTING  MATCH.  114 

How  ELIJAH  WAS  FED  AT  CHRISTMAS.  . .  128 

UNCLE  GID'S  CHRISTMAS  TREE 145 

A  NEWT  YEAR'S  SWEARING  OFF 168 

A  BROTHER-IN-LAW  OF  ANTOINE 1 8 1 

ANTOINE  ON  THE  RAIL 190 

ANTOINE  SUGARING 199 

THE  GRAY  PINE — 1 207 

THE  GRAY  PINE — II 220 

A  BEE  HUNTER'S  REMINISCENCES 237 


V 


M130143 


Contents. 

PAGE 

BEE  HUNTING 244 

CLEANING  THE  OLD  GUN 246 

GIVEN  AWAY  . ;. , .  264 

A  LAY  SERMON 275 

A  LITTLE  STORY 277 

A  THANKSGIVING  DINNER  IN  THE  WOODS  283 

A  Vis-A-Vis  WITH  A  PANTHER 288 

A  VERMONT  RATTLESNAKE 294 

SAVED  BY  AN  ENEMY 297 

EARLY  SPRING 305 

SUMMER    308 

FALL 312 

WINTER    315 

WINTER'S  TALES  318 

THE  CROW  AND  THE  SCARECROW 330 

A  CASE  OF  ABSENT-MINDEDNESS 331 

SPORT    341 

MAKING  THE  MOST  OF  IT 346 

THE  SHUT-IN  SPORTSMAN 350 

THE  FARMER'S  BOY 358 

OLD  BOATS 364 

THE  LAND  OF  MEMORY 374 

ANTOINE'S  VERSION  OF  "EVANGELINE"  .  .  377 


ROWLAND  E.  ROBINSON. 

ROWLAND  EVANS  ROBINSON  was  born  in  Fer- 
risburgh,  Addison  county,  Vermont,  May  14, 
1833,  the  youngest  of  four,  Thomas,  George, 
Anne  and  Rowland,  children  of  Rowland  T.  and 
Rachael  Robinson.  His  school  education  was 
gained  in  the  district  school,  taught  in  winter  by 
college  students,  in  summer  by  school  mistresses, 
and  for  a  while  in  the  Ferrisburgh  Academy,  under 
the  instruction  of  Joel  S.  Bingham  and  Lucien 
Chancy.  Both  were  excellent  teachers,  but  he  was 
an  unwilling  scholar.  However,  he  was  a  great 
reader,  and,  as  the  house  was  well  supplied  with 
books,  he  made  some  amends  for  lack  of  study  by 
reading  Scott's  novels,  history,  and  books  of  travel 
and  adventure. 

He  was  fond  of  drawing,  and  had  some  talent 
for  it,  but  never  had  proper  or  regular  instruction, 
though  after  arriving  at  manhood  he  was  for  a 
while  with  a  draughtsman  in  New  York,  who  took 
very  little  pains  to  teach  him  more  than  what 
would  be  useful  to  himself  in  his  work,  such  as 
whitening  the  boxwood  blocks  and  making  tracings 


E.  Robinson. 

on  them.  Afterward  he  undertook  drawing  on  his 
own  account,  and  sold  a  few  comic  drawings  to  T. 
W.  Strong,  publisher  of  Yankee  Notions;  to  Frank 
Leslie,  Harper,  and  others;  but  after  an  unsuccess- 
ful struggle  gave  up  and  went  home  to  the  farm. 

In  1866  he  again  tried  his  fortune  in  New  York 
as  a  draughtsman,  and  was  more  successful.  He 
sold  comic  drawings  to  several  publications,  and 
drew  scenes  of  country  life  for  Frank  Leslie's,  The 
American  Agriculturist,  Rural  New  Yorker,  and 
Hearth  and  Home.  Besides  these  kinds  of  work, 
he  drew  a  great  deal  of  catalogue  work,  fashion 
plates,  and  so  forth. 

He  returned  to  his  home  in  Vermont  in  1873 
with  the  promise  of  a  place  in  the  drawing  depart- 
ment of  the  American  Agriculturist,  but  the 
promise  was  not  fulfilled,  and  he  did  not  go  back. 
He  continued  to  draw  on  wood  at  his  home  until 
wood-engraving  was  superseded  by  process  work. 

He  was  married  to  Anna  Stevens  in  1870. 
Urged  by  her,  he  wrote  and  illustrated  a  paper  on 
uFox  Hunting  in  New  England,"  and  sent  it  to 
Scribner's  Magazine.  Greatly  to  his  surprise  the 
article  was  accepted,  and  was  followed  by  several 
others  in  Scribner's,  The  Century,  Lippincott's  and 
The  Atlantic.  A  series  of  sketches  contributed  to 
Forest  and  Stream  were  published  in  book  form 


Rowland  E.  Robinson. 

entitled,  "Uncle  Lisha's  Shop,"  in  1888.  Another 
of  like  character,  "Sam  Level's  Camps,"  was  pub- 
lished in  1890,  followed  by  "Danvis  Folks"  and 
"Uncle  Lisha's  Outing;"  "Vermont:  a  Study  of 
Independence,"  being  one  of  Houghton  &  Mifflin's 
"American  Commonwealth"  series;  "In  New  Eng- 
land Fields  and  Woods,"  a  collection  of  out-of- 
door  sketches;  a  story  entitled,  "A  Hero  of  Ticon- 
deroga,"  and  another,  "In  the  Green  Wood,"  pub- 
lished in  1899;  another  story  of  the  same  period 
in  the  early  history  of  Vermont  entitled,  "A  Danvis 
Pioneer." 

In  1887  Mr.  Robinson's  eyes  began  to  fail,  and 
in  1893  he  became  totally  blind.  He  continued  to 
write,  with  the  help  of  a  grooved  board,  his  wife 
revising  and  copying  the  manuscript. 

His  father  was  an  active  worker  in  the  anti- 
slavery  cause,  and  a  warm  friend  of  Garrison, 
May,  Johnson,  and  many  other  noted  anti-slavery 
men  who  always  found  a  welcome  in  his  house, 
which  was  also  a  station  of  the  U.  G.  R.'R.  He 
was  a  ready  and  forcible  writer,  and  his  pen  was 
often  employed  in  the  service  of  the  cause  which 
he  held  most  dear.  He  was  the  only  son  of 
Thomas  R.  Robinson,  who  came  to  Vermont  in 
1791  from  his  birthplace,  Newport,  R.  I.  He  was 
the  youngest  son  of  Thomas  Robinson,  merchant, 


Rowland  E.  Robinson. 

who  was  the  son  of  Deputy-Governor  William 
Robinson,  the  son  of  Rowland,  who  emigrated  to 
Boston  in  1675  from  Long  Town,  Cumberland 
county,  England.  He  married  Mary  (Baker) 
Allen  the  following  year.  He  purchased  a  large 
tract  of  land  of  the  Narragansett  Indians,  on 
which  he  settled  near  Pettaquamscutt  River,  where 
he  died  in  1716. 

Mr.  Robinson's  mother,  Rachael  Gilpin,  born 
in  Maryland,  was  the  daughter  of  George  and 
Rachael  (Starr)  Gilpin.  Her  father  was  a  leather 
merchant  in  "The  Swamp'1  in  New  York  City. 
He  was  the  son  of  George  and  Jane  (Peters) 
Gilpin,  who  lived  in  Alexandria,  Virginia,  where 
he  died  in  1813.  He  was  Colonel  of  the  Fairfax 
Militia  in  the  Revolutionary  War,  was  an  aide  to 
General  Washington,  and  one  of  his  pall-bearers. 
He  was  the  son  of  Samuel  and  Jane  (Parker) 
Gilpin,  who  lived  in  Nottingham,  Maryland. 
Samuel  was  the  son  of  Joseph  and  Hannah  Gilpin, 
wrho  emigrated  in  1695.  Joseph  was  a  descendant 
of  a  brother  of  Bernard  Gilpin,  the  "Apostle  of 
the  North." 

Mr.  Robinson  died  at  Ferrisburgh,  October  15, 
1900. 


HUNTING  WITHOUT  A  GUN. 


[HERE  are  certain  advantages  in 
going  hunting  without  a  gun. 
One  sees  more  game  and  gets  far 
better  chances  for  shots  if  he  is 
empty-handed  than  if  he  had  a 
gun  at  his  hip,  with  a  thumb  on 
the  striker  and  forefinger  nail  against  the  inside 
front  of  the  trigger  guard. 

I  remember  with  a  pang  how,  one  day  last  fall, 
I  had  been  waiting  an  hour  on  a  runway,  in  just 
such  readiness  for  the  coming  of  a  fox,  my  heart 
hammering  at  my  ribs  and  the  back  door  of  my 
throat  as  the  merry  music  of  the  hounds  tended 
toward  me,  then  sinking  with  dull  thuds  to  ignoble 
regions  as  the  wild  melody  sank  below  the  whis- 
pers of  the  light  breeze,  till  at  last,  grown  tired  and 
thirsty,  I  set  my  gun  against  a  tree  and  went  down 
to  the  brook  for  a  drink.  Then,  while  I  was  on  all 
fours,  getting  breath  between  sups,  an  aimless 


Hunting  Without  a   Gun. 

glance  down  stream  disclosed,  at  first  dimly,  as 
in  a  dream,  then  with  sickening  distinctness  and 
reality,  the  fox,  picking  his  way  across  the  brook 
not  five  rods  away.  One  rainy  day,  when  its 
soaked  charges  made  my  gun  useless  as  a  rotten 
stick,  as  I  rounded  a  bend  of  the  wrood-bordered 
stream,  I  came  upon  the  biggest  flock  of  wild  ducks 
I  ever  saw,  one-half  of  them  dozing  on  a  log, 
inviting  a  raking  shot,  the  rest,  lazily  swimming 
in  a  huddle,  just  under  the  sedgy  bank.  My  grief 
at  losing  such  chances  would  have  been  slight  if  my 
gun  had  been  at  home,  instead  of  being  so  near  and 
yet  so  unattainable,  or  in  my  hand  so  useless. 

When  you  wander  gunless  in  game-frequented 
tracts,  there  are  no  misses  to  account  for  to  your- 
self, nor  any  occasion  for  telling  "wrong  stories" 
when  you  get  home.  If  a  ruffed  grouse  bursts  with 
muffled  thunder  from  the  border  of  your  forest 
path,  a  hare  bounds  into  sight  and  out  across  it,  or 
a  woodcock  whistles  out  of  the  thicket  before  you, 
each  gone  almost  as  soon  as  seen,  your  ready  fore- 
fingers come  into  line,  getting  the  range  of  every 
one,  and  you  say:  "I  could  have  killed  him,"  and 
feel  almost  as  satisfied  as  if  you  saw  him  tumble 
to  the  earth.  "If  your  finger'd  been  a  gun,"  ten  to 
one  your  charge  had  brought  down  nothing  but  a 
shower  of  leaves,  nor  done  beast  nor  bird  any  harm 


Hunting  Without  a   Gun. 

but  fright.  When  you  had  searched  the  under- 
brush for  half  an  hour  for  a  feather  or  a  tuft  of 
fur  and  found  none,  you  would  rack  your  brain  for 
reasons  why  you  missed,  and  find  none  but  your 
own  unskillfulness,  one  which  affords  little  com- 
fort. It  is  pleasant,  too,  to  come  home  boldly, 
without  fear  of  meeting  the  man  or  odious  boy  who 
asks:  "Where's  your  game?"  After  a  bootless 
tramp  with  a  gun,  if  you  skulk  home  ever  so  slyly, 
you  are  sure  to  be  accosted  by  one  or  the  other,  if 
not  till  you  get  to  your  own  back  door. 

Without  a  gun  one  may  hunt  in  close  time,  when 
the  grouse  is  summoning  his  harem  by  beat  of 
drum,  the  woodcock  wooing  his  mate  at  twilight 
with  towcrings  and  unwonted  notes,  and  the  wood 
drake  has  donned  his  bravest  attire  to  win  his 
bride,  or,  when  wooing  and  honeymoon  are  over 
and  family  cares  have  fallen  upon  them,  and  even 
on  Sundays,  without  fear  of  game  warden  or  town 
grand  juror. 

The  best  of  all  is,  that  without  a  gun  one  has 
time — or  takes  it,  which  is  the  way  to  have  it — 
to  look  at  everything  about  him  and  so  see  ten 
times  more  than  he  does  when  his  chief  purpose 
is  the  killing  of  game.  Then  a  tree  or  rock  or 
clump  of  underbrush  or  sprangle  of  ferns  or  tuft 
of  sedge  is  not  looked  at,  but  sought  to  be  looked 

3 


Hunting  Without  a   Gun. 

into  and  beyond;  and  if  a  sight  is  caught  of  some 
strange  growth,  or  a  bird,  new  in  itself  or  its  ways, 
one  passes  it  by  with  a  twinge  of  regret,  and  for- 
sakes a  chance  that  may  never  come  to  him  again, 
all  for  the  craving  of  the  game  bag,  as  hungry  as 
an  empty  stomach,  and  the  savage  bloodthirst  that 
we  dignify  by  calling  it  love  of  sport.  The  game 
bag  obliges,  and  one  is  ashamed  to  go  home  with 
it  empty.  But  without  it  and  the  gun  that  feeds  it, 
we  may  get  more  than  it  could  hold,  and  that 
which  needs  neither  ice  nor  fire  to  preserve,  not  for 
the  short  space  of  a  week,  but  for  all  our  days. 

When  my  fox  that  day  had  vanished,  I  could 
not  tell  how  he  looked  nor  anything  of  him  but  that 
he  was  a  fox  and  had  given  me  the  slip,  for  while 
he  was  in  sight  I  was  only  wishing  for  my  gun,  and 
cursing  my  carelessness,  and  suffering  in  anticipa- 
tion the  jeers  and  reproaches  of  my  companions  if  I 
dared  to  tell  them  what  had  happened.  His 
beauty  and  grace,  his  adroit  maneuvers  and  self- 
possession,  his  air  of  thinking  to  himself,  were  as 
much  lost  as  was  the  chance  of  a  shot.  If  my  gun 
had  been  at  home  and  I  had  taken  in  these,  he 
might  have  carried  off  his  skin  and  welcome.  I 
would  have  something  more  lasting  to  treasure  up. 
As  it  was,  the  ruddy  ghost  of  that  fox  troubled  my 
sleep  for  a  week,  and  the  lost  opportunity  vexed 

4 


Hunting  Without  a   Gun. 

my  awakening.  If  I  had  not  had  the  gun  to 
frighten  the  ducks  with  the  snapping  of  its  inef- 
fectual caps,  I  might  at  least  have  counted  them 
before  they  flew  away  with  their  beauty,  were  they 
thirty  or  fifty  or  one  thousand. 


IN  SEARCH  OF  NOTHING. 


ET  the  gun  hang  on  its  own 
hooks;  and  go  to  the  wooded 
hill,  from  behind  which  you  first 
saw  the  sun  rise,  over  whose 
length  and  breadth  you  have 
hunted  every  fall  and  wintei 
since  you  began  to  carry  a  gun.  You  know  every 
ridge  and  hollow  so  well  that  if  you  were  led  to  any 
part  of  it  blindfolded  you  could  tell  where  you 
were  after  you  had  looked  about  a  minute.  Let 
yourself  drift  about  in  these  familiar  woods  some 
autumn  day  in  search  of  nothing,  and  the  chances 
are  that  you  will  find  many  things  you  never  saw 
before. 

You  are  not  hurried.  There  is  time  for  your 
nostrils  to  inhale  all  the  subtle  odors  of  the  woods, 
the  mingled  perfumes  of  flowers,  fruitage  and  de- 
cay. You  hear  voices  in  the  sounds  beyond 
the  environment  of  silence,  outside  sounds  of 
civilization  and  husbandry  piercing  but  not  break- 
ing the  stillness  of  the  woods.  From  the  moss 

6 


In  Search  of  Nothing. 

and  mold  at  your  feet  to  the  frayed  horizon 
that  closely  encompasses  you,  there  is  enough  to 
keep  your  eyes  busy  for  a  day  and  then  leave  a 
world  unexplored. 

I  have  known  fox-hunters,  who  year  after  year 
have  ranged  all  the  woods  for  ten  miles  about 
them,  and  who  never  saw  the  biggest  woodpecker 
that  lives  in  them,  the  pileated.  They  have  heard 
him  calling  them  more  than  once  to  come  and  see 
what  a  brave  woodchopper  he  is,  how  he  can  make 
the  chips  fty  and  the  woods  echo  to  his  strokes.  But 
they  had  come  hunting  foxes,  not  woodpeckers, 
and  had  no  time  to  turn  out  of  their  way  to  visit 
him,  and  he  was  too  great  a  personage  in  wood- 
pecker circles  to  come  to  them.  If  they  desire  his 
acquaintance,  they  must  come  to  where  he  is  doing 
business.  Then  he  wrill  show  them  his  work.  What 
a  barkpeeler  he  is.  Wilson  says  that  he  has  "seen 
him  separate  the  greatest  part  of  the  bark  from  a 
large  dead  pine  for  twenty  or  thirty  feet,  in  less 
than  a  quarter  of  an  hour."  With  hammer  and 
chisel  in  one,  he  can  cover  the  roots  of  a  tree  with 
its  owTn  slivers  and  cut  a  doorway  to  his  home 
almost  large  enough  for  a  'coon's  pasage.  He  will 
show  them  his  aerial  paces  as  he  hops  from  tree  to 
tree,  exhibiting  then  the  white  feathers  of  his 
wings,  and  his  crest  that  has  not  faded  a  whit  since 

7 


Hunting  Without  a   Gun. 

Hiawatha  first  dyed  it.  Though  seldom  seen,  he 
does  not  desert  us,  with  the  golden-winged  and  red- 
headed, but  stays  all  the  year  round.  By  the 
few  country  folks  who  see  him  he  is  called  wood- 
cock, a  name  which  fits  him  better  than  it  does  the 
borer  of  bogs,  who  by  ancient  usage  bears  it. 

I  wonder  how  many  times  in  my  hunting  with  a 
gun  I  had  crushed  the  walking  fern  with  my  knees, 
and  torn  it  up  with  my  nails  as  I  scaled  the  ledge, 
before  I  ever  saw  it.  There  are  not  a  score  of  peo- 
ple of  my  acquaintance — hunters  and  woods- 
haunters  of  all  sorts — who  know  that  it  grows  here 
at  all,  far  less  that  it  is  common.  Having  got  the 
secret  of  its  hiding,  one  finds  it  on  almost  every 
northward  and  westward-facing  ledge  from  the 
rocky  shores  of  Champlain  to  the  backbone  of  Ver- 
mont; not  everywhere,  but  here  and  there  a  patch 
of  it,  looping  its  small  fronds  along  a  shelf  of  the 
ancient  mossy  walls. 

I  am  ashamed  when  I  remember  that  I  waited 
till  I  was  a  big  boy  for  a  lady  to  come  all  the  way 
from  Pennsylvania  to  show  me  the  arbutus,  grow- 
ing almost  as  common  as  wintergreen  and  prince's 
pine  on  our  rocky  hills.  How  dull  my  senses  were 
never  to  have  caught  the  fragrant  trail  of  its  blos- 
soms in  the  May  woods,  and  to  have  followed  it 
up  till  I  found  them  blushing  among  their  own 

8 


/;/  Search  of  Nothing. 

rusty  leaves  and  the  last  year's  dead  ones  of  their 
tall  neighbors.  Every  one  who  cares  for  it  knows 
where  it  grows  now,  and  people  come  in  troops  to 
rob  the  woods  of  it  for  the  decoration  of  churches 
at  Easter.  They  might  better  leave  it  in  these  first 
temples.  In  the  choppings,  where  the  thin  soil  is 
bereft  of  the  shade  of  the  trees,  I  find  its  leaves 
withering  as  if  scorched  by  fire,  but  like  a  girdled 
apple  tree,  every  sprig  is  full  of  blossom,  it  dies 
with  its  crown  on.  Till  the  coming  of  the  fair 
Pennsylvanian,  it  had  blossomed  for  me  only  in 
books,  and  grew  as  far  off  as  the  Victoria  regia. 
As  for  finding  it  here,  I  should  sooner  have  thought 
of  hunting  for  seals  in  the  lake,  for  there  had  been 
two  or  three  of  them  killed  in  its  waters  or  on  its 
ice. 

Though  I  hardly  expect  to  find  a  seal  or  a  Vic- 
toria regia  within  the  limits  of  Vermont,  there  is 
no  telling  what  fortune  there  is  in  store  for  me. 
If  one  stays  beneath  the  star  he  was  born  under, 
watching  and  waiting,  it  may,  at  last,  prove  a 
lucky  one. 


IN  THE   SPRING  WOODS. 


LL  seasons  are  good  wherein  to  go 
hunting  without  a  gun,  but  none 
better  than  when  the  arbutus  is 
blooming  or  a  little  earlier, 
when  of  all  flowers  the  liverleaf 
alone  has  raised  its  head  above 
the  mold.  For  then  you  are  in  duty  bound  not  to 
hunt,  it  being  close  time  for  all  game  except  wild 
ducks  and  geese  and  the  persecuted  snipe — and 
ought  to  be  for  them. 

The  trees  are  waking  from  their  long  sleep, 
showing  it  not  only  by  the  swelling  buds  that  give 
a  purple  tinge  to  all  the  gray  woods,  but  by  a  more 
living  look  in  their  trunks.  Their  old  leaves, 
pressed  flat  by  the  snow  that  so  long  has  lain  upon 
them,  thickly  cover  the  ground  and  will  add  a 
nail's  thickness  to  the  crust  of  the  world. 

Here  and  there  on  the  brown  carpet  are  tufts  of 
evergreen  ferns,  cushions  of  moss,  blotches  of  the 
purple  green  leaves  of  hepatica  and  dots  of  its 
flowers.  The  sun  shines  down  through  the  lattice 

10 


In  the  Spring  Woods. 

of  branches,  and  checks  all  with  meshes  of  shadow. 

The  chipmunk  and  woodchuck  have  left  the 
darkness  of  the  under  world  and  are  out  in  the  sun 
again.  The  birds  that  spend  the  year  with  us  are 
here — jays,  woodpeckers,  titmice  and  nuthatches- 
all  busy  and  noisy,  and  some  of  the  migrants  have 
come.  A  hawk  is  cruising  high  above  the  tree-tops, 
his  broad  sails  golden  brown  in  the  sunlight,"  and 
a  black  guard  of  crows  are  challenging  a  fox  in  his 
owrn  woods,  or  an  owl  in  the  tree  that  has  been 
his  home  these  ten  years.  From  her  perch  and 
back  again,  a  peewee  makes  sudden  flights,  gather- 
ing an  insect  in  every  airy  loop.  A  bluebird  carols 
in  a  tree-top  against  a  sky  as  blue  as  his  back,  and 
a  flock  of  slate-colored  snowbirds  are  thridding  a 
thicket,  and  filling  it  with  their  light  warble  and 
sharp  metallic  chip,  like  the  clicking  of  castanets. 
They  are  not  snowbirds  with  us,  for  they  go 
further  southward  when  the  first  snow  comes,  and 
are  by  no  means  the  earliest  spring  comers. 

There  is  the  note  of  a  brave  defier  of  snow  and 
bitter  cold — the  muifled  drum-beat  of  the  ruffed 
grouse.  It  is  one  of  those  sounds  of  which  it  is 
hard  to  tell  whether  far  off  or  near  by.  Get  the 
direction,  and  try  if  you  can  be  an  unseen  witness 
of  his  performance,  for  unseen  you  must  be  if  you 
would  be  more  than  a  listener.  He  is  not  so 

ii 


Hunting   Without  a   Gun. 

absorbed  in  the  calling  of  his  dames  but  that  he 
keeps,  with  his  sharpest  of  eyes,  a  vigilant  lookout 
for  intruders.  Doubtless  in  the  old  Indian  days 
the  boys  were  set  to  stalking  the  drumming  grouse, 
for  surely  they  could  have  had  no  better  practice  to 
fit  them  for  the  kinds  of  warfare  and  hunting  that 
were  to  employ  their  grown  up  days.  Stoop  low 
as  you  steal  through  the  undergrowth  and  tread 
gingerly  on  the  drying  leaves  and  dead  twigs,  step- 
ping only  to  the  beat  of  his  drum,  when  you  get  in 
his  neighborhood.  Now,  you  are  sure  you  see  in 
the  haze  of  underbrush  the  log  he  stands  on.  Let 
him  drum  once  more  and  then  crawl  within  sight  of 
him — but  you  wait  in  vain.  The  show  is  ended  for 
the  present  and  you  hear  the  light  rustle  of  the 
performer's  receding  footsteps.  You  may  go  for- 
ward and  examine  the  stage  if  you  will,  he  will  not 
object  now.  It  is  not  always,  as  some  say,  a  hollow 
and  resonant  log,  but  quite  as  often  like  this, 
crumbling  with  decay,  the  redness  of  the  half  de- 
composed wood  showing  in  places  through  its 
green  covering  of  moss,  noticeably  where  the  bird 
has  so  often  stood.  Sometime  it  is  one  wood, 
sometime  another,  but  perhaps  oftenest  pine, 
where  pine  grows,  or  has  grown,  as  that  longest 
resists  decay.  Such  a  one  becomes  time-honored 
and  held  in  esteem  by  the  grouse,  and  generation 

12 


In  the  Spring  Woods. 

after  generation  of  these  cocks  of  the  woods  strut 
their  brief  hour  upon  it  and  sound  their  spring 
tattoo.  Sometime  a  rock  is  put  to  this  use;  but 
whatever  the  bird  stands  upon  while  drumming, 
there  is  no  perceptible  difference  to  my  ear  in  the 
volume  of  sound  produced.  Your  particular  drum- 
mer or  another  one  is  at  it  again  not  far  off :  uBoomp 
— boomp — boomp — boomp.  Boomp  —  boomp — 
boomp.  Boomp  -  -  boompboompbrrrrrrroomp  !" 
Try  your  luck  again  at  following  him  up,  or  hide 
here  where  you  can  see  the  log  and  wait  for  his 
return,  or  take  your  bearings  so  that  you  may  crawl 
within  sight  behind  a  tree  next  time  you  hear  him. 
If  in  one  way  or  another  you  succeed  in  getting  a 
front  seat  at  this  drum  solo,  you  will  see  the  per- 
former show  off  at  his  best,  as  if  the  eyes  of  the 
world  were  upon  him.  Perhaps  he  fancies  the  eyes 
of  his  world — the  brown  dames  he  loves — are 
peering  at  him  coyly  through  the  screen  of  brush 
as  he  swells  his  body,  raises  his  ruff,  erects  his 
spread  tail  and  with  lowered  wings  proudly  struts 
and  wheels  upon  his  log.  Then  he  begins  with  two 
or  three  beats,  with  short  pauses  between,  and  then 
a  longer  pause ;  then  more  beats,  increasing  in  fre- 
quency till  they  become  a  continuous  roll,  in  which 
they  end,  though  sometime  followed  by  one  or  two 
distinct  beats  like  the  beginning.  But  some  slight 

13 


Hunting   Without  a   Gun. 

noise  or  motion  of  yours  has  caught  his  quick 
senses.  He  suspects,  if  he  does  not  see,  an  unwel- 
come intruder,  and  folding  his  drumsticks  (off  the 
platter  they  are  not  his  legs)  he  hops  lightly  from 
the  log  and  walks  off,  not  straight  from  you,  but  in 
a  wide  curve,  as  if  he  wished  to  get  a  flank  or  rear 
view  of  his  unbidden  auditor.  Presently  he  fades 
into  the  gray  of  the  brush  and  tree-trunks  and  is 
gone;  and  you  may  rise  and  go  home  now.  Is  it 
not  better  so  than  if  you  carried  him  away  a  carcass 
in  rumpled  feathers,  bereft  of  life  and  with  it  of 
half  his  beauty? 

If  you  wade  into  the  woods — and  it  is  easier  wad- 
ing without  a  gun  than  with  it — about  the  time  the 
sugar-makers  are  beginning  their  work,  you  may 
see  that  someone  has  been  before  them,  tapping 
nearer  the  sky  than  their  augers  bore,  and  where 
the  sap  has  a  finer  and  more  ethereal  flavor.  You 
can  see  little  trickles  of  it  darkening  some  of  the 
smaller  smooth  branches,  and  if  your  eyes  are 
sharp  enough,  the  incisions  it  flows  from.  These 
are  the  chisel  marks  of  the  red  squirrel,  the  only 
real  sap-sucker  I  know  of,  excepting  the  boy. 
Make  yourself  comfortable  on  some  patch  of 
ground  that  the  spring  ebb  of  the  snow  has  left 
bare  and  keep  still  long  enough,  and  you  may  see 
him  stretch  himself  along  a  branch  and  slowly  suck 


In  the  Spring  Woods. 

or  lap  the  sap  as  it  oozes  from  the  wound.  Evi- 
dently he  enjoys  it  greatly,  and  it  must  be  grate- 
ful to  his  palate,  for  all  winter,  save  in  a  thaw  or 
two,  he  has  had  nothing  to  quench  his  thirst  but 
snow,  and  eating  one's  drink  is  a  hard  and  poor 
way  of  taking  it.  Was  he  the  first  to  discover  the 
sweetness  of  the  maple,  and  did  the  Indians  take 
the  hint  of  sugar-making  from  him?  If  so  we  are 
under  obligations  to  him,  but  it  is  hard  to  forgive 
some  of  his  sins.  No  one  would  begrudge  him  his 
bit  and  sup  if  he  would  confine  himself  to  nuts  and 
sap  or  now  and  then  a  stolen  apple  or  pear,  but  he 
is  a  bloodthirsty  little  savage,  killing  unfledged 
birds  in  the  nest  whenever  he  can.  The  old  birds 
know  his  murderous  tricks  and  hate  him  accord- 
ingly. The  robins  and  blackbirds  make  a  good 
fight  against  the  marauder,  but  mostly  it  is  a  losing 
one  for  them.  If  he  keeps  his  eyes  shut  during 
their  spurts  of  attack  he  is  in  no  great  danger,  and 
at  last  gets  their  broods,  for  fledglings  must  be  fed, 
and  old  birds  cannot  always  be  guarding  them. 
When  one  remembers  how  easily  the  squirrel  can 
get  at  almost  all  the  nests  of  the  smaller  birds,  it  is 
a  wonder  how  so  many  escape  his  raids.  Of  all  the 
birds'  nests  built  in  trees,  the  hammock  of  the  oriole 
seems  the  safest  from  him,  but  I  doubt  if  he  much 
troubles  the  woodpeckers.  He  would  be  in  sorry 

15 


Hunting   Without   a   Gun. 

plight  if  caught  in  the  cul  de  sac  of  their  holes,  for 
the  tools  that  make  the  chips  fly  out  of  solid  wood 
would  make  short  work  with  his  flesh  and  blood. 

When  you  surprise  the  squirrel  in  this  murder  of 
the  innocents  you  will  wish  your  gun  was  at  hand. 


THE  SAVED  PLACES. 


HEREVER  civilization  and  im- 
provement have,  for  a  hundred 
years  or  so,  laid  hands  upon  the 
country  which  God  made  and 
man  for  the  most  part  spoils, 
there  is  but  little  woodland  left 
but  that  of  second  growth,  and  this  is  yearly 
dwindling,  as  some  new  industry  arises  and  calls 
for  trees  of  size  and  kind  before  of  little  value. 
Such  woodlands,  if  they  have  not  the  grandeur  and 
solemnity  and  mystery  of  the  primeval  forest,  have 
beauty  and  their  seasons  of  silence  and  some  secrets 
of  their  own  to  keep  from  the  world  at  large. 

The  trees  were  set  in  their  disorderly  order  by 
the  oldest  and  best  of  landscape  gardners,  who 
plied  her  art  before  Adam  delved  or  Eve  spun,  and 
whose  severe  but  kindly  hand  thins,  prunes  and 
trains  them.  She  gives  them  beauty,  and  in  the 
hush  of  noon  and  eventide  and  night,  and  in  the 
deadness  of  winter,  such  silence  that  one,  being  in 
the  midst  thereof,  may  believe  himself  as  far  as  he 

17 


Hunting   Without   a   Gun. 

would  wish  from  his  fellows.  She  gives  them  also 
plants  and  their  flowers,  birds  and  beasts  and  their 
nests  and  lairs  and  ways  of  life  to  hide  cunningly. 

For  what  is  left  us,  let  us  be  thankful — for  the 
trees  that  since  the  pioneer's  ax  laid  low  the  giants 
of  the  old  days  have  grown  to  fair  estate,  and  shade 
a  soil  that  no  plow  has  rumpled,  where  the  un- 
stirred leaves  may  lie  and  moulder  where  they  fall 
and  nurture  moss  and  ferns  and  the  shyest  wild 
flowers;  where  a  hare  may  yet  crouch,  a  grouse 
drum,  a  woodcock  bore  the  mould,  and  where  some 
trees  have  grown  old  enough  to  take  squirrels  and 
woodmice,  and  raccoons  and  swarms  of  wild  bees 
to  their  hearts.  Into  such  saved  places  it  is  good 
for  one  to  go,  weaponed  or  weaponless.  If  he 
leaves  his  gun  at  home,  he  may  see  more  but  have 
less  to  show  for  his  outing;  yet  what  one  has  to 
show  for  his  hunting  does  not  always  count  highest 
in  the  long  run. 

One  cannot  go  far  in  such  woods  before  he  will 
be  reminded  that  he  is  not  very  much  apart  from 
his  kind,  though  out  of  sight  and  hearing  of  them. 
He  will  come  upon  traces  of  the  ruthless  ax, 
stumps,  chips  and  wasted  wood,  and  among  the 
sprouts,  the  brands  and  ashes  of  the  choppers'  fires, 
or  a  rank  wisp  of  herds'  grass  grown  up  from  the 
chance-sown  seed  of  a  team's  baiting. 

18 


The  Saved  Places. 

He  may  find  an  apple  tree  in  the  midst  of  the 
woods,  which  he  shall  know  more  by  its  blossoms 
or  fruits  than  by  its  manner  of  growth,  for  it  has 
taken  on  the  wild,  natural  ways  of  its  companions, 
and  strives  upward  toward  the  sky,  mingling  its 
lithe  slender  branches  with  those  of  the  birches  and 
maples.  One  is  first  aware  of  it  when,  in  blossom 
time,  he  scents  an  orchard  fragrance  in  the  woods 
and  sees  out-of-place  flowers  aloft  with  all  the  wild 
bees  about  them,  or  when  in  autumn  he  finds  the 
forest  leaves  strewn  with  farm  fruits.  It  is  like 
coming  upon  a  sheep  astray  in  the  woods,  only  this 
strayed  one  seems  quite  at  home  here.  However 
it  was  planted,  by  bird  or  squirrel  or  wood-ranging 
cow,  or  by  hunter  or  chopper  who  tossed  aside  the 
close-gnawed  core  of  his  dessert,  it  is  a  godsend  to 
present  generations  of  bees,  birds  and  rodents,  and 
its  racy  fruit  would  sting  delightfully  with  its 
"bow-arrow  tang"  the  palate  of  him  who  wrote  the 
history  of  the  wild  apple  as  only  one  who  loved  it 
could. 

One  will  find  traces  to  lead  him  back  far  on  the 
trail  of  time.  Rocks  as  old  as  the  world  with  the 
same  kinds  of  mosses  and  lichens  that,  grew  on 
them  centuries  ago.  The  stump  of  an  ancient  pine, 
barkless,  moss-covered  and  outwardly  gray,  but 
with  the  terebinthine  odor  and  flavor  of  its  prime 

19 


Hunting   Without  a   Gun. 

well  preserved  in  its  hollow  heart.  When  its  tiny 
needles  first  pricked  the  daylight,  perhaps  no  ad- 
venturer had  sailed  across  seas  to  these  shores. 
When  it  was  in  its  lusty  youth  what  a  new  old 
world  wras  this !  Did  the  great  tree  go  where  in 
colonial  times  all  good  pines  were  supposed  to  go, 
namely,  "in  the  masting  of  his  Majesty's  navy?" 
Likelier  it  went  to  the  first  sawmill  built  on  the 
nearest  stream,  and  then  to  the  boarding  of  the 
thrifty  settler's  barn,  where  the  broad  boards,  now 
as  gray  as  the  parent  stump,  shelter  to-day  the 
grandson's  herds  and  crops.  Many  generations 
of  a  departed  race  have  trod  this  undisturbed  soil, 
beneath  whose  surface  the  old  roots  lie  just  as  they 
writhed  their  way  so  long  ago,  and  they  are  sound 
yet,  though  dead,  good  for  kindling  or  a  torch. 
No  hunter  can  look  at  nor  touch  them  without 
veneration  when  he  remembers  that  they  have  out- 
lived a  race  of  hunters,  for  every  hunter  has  fel- 
lowship with  all  peoples  and  generations  of 
hunters.  That  is  a  "touch  of  nature  that  makes  all 
the  world  akin."  The  descendants  of  the  old  tree 
are  growing  all  about  here  and  the  ground  is 
covered  thickly  with  their  fallen  leaves,  a  carpet  of 
rich  color,  soft  and  noiseless  to  the  tread,  and 
making  this  hillside  so  slippery  that  one  may  go 
down  it  much  easier  than  climb  it.  If  one  were 

20 


The  Saved  Places. 

hunting  only  for  game  that  he  might  kill,  he  would 
likely  enough  overlook  the  rare  pine  drops  that 
grow  here,  so  like  the  tawny  mat  of  needles  out  of 
which  they  rise. 

Here  are  goodly  trees,  yet  they  do  not  reach  for 
the  unattainable  sky  as  their  ancestor  did.  Their 
topmost  shoots  scarcely  overlook  the  surrounding 
growth,  and  they  stretch  their  long  limbs  out  into 
the  twilight  of  the  woods  so  low  that  the  green 
leaves  on  the  nether  branches  brush  the  fallen  dead 
ones,  but  they  all  sing  the  old  pine's  old  song  of  the 
far-away  sea,  and  they  brood  such  silence  and 
solemnity  of  shades  and  sepulchral  coolness  that 
one  feels  a  kind  of  dread  creeping  over  him.  The 
atmosphere  is  panthery.  This  quality  is  inherited, 
for  just  below  where  the  last  pines  blotch  the  pas- 
ture with  their  dark  shade,  the  Catamount  Spring 
bubbles  out  at  the  foot  of  a  great  rock,  and  there, 
eighty  years  ago,  a  girl  bleaching  her  web  of  home- 
spun linen,  was  beset  by  a  panther  and  only  saved 
by  her  faithful  dog. 

Why  should  not  a  panther  come  here  now  ?  The 
woods  are  dark  and  wild  enough,  and  not  a  sound 
of  civilization  to  be  heard.  As  the  daylight  dies, 
the  shadows  creep  up  like  panthers  stealing  on  their 
prey,  and  no  more  silently  than  the  great  cat  might 
tread  this  soft  footing.  A  twig  snaps  mysteriously, 

21 


Hunting  Without  a   Gun. 

the  pines  heave  a  mournful  sigh,  and  as  the 
shadows  deepen,  a  bit  of  phosphorescent  wood 
glares  at  you  like  eyes  aflame  with  baleful  light. 
As  you  almost  hold  your  breath  to  hear  a  devilish 
yell  tear  the  heavy  stillness,  if  your  hand  could  but 
feel  the  comfortable  chill  of  the  good  brown  bar- 
rels of  your  helpful  gun,  your  back  would  not  suffer 
that  unacountable  shiver  which  reminds  you  that  it 
is  not  always  pleasant  to  go  hunting  without  a  gun. 


22 


LITTLE  OTTER. 


Y  boat  parts  from  the  oozy  bed 
where  it  has  lain  so  long  that  the 
marsh  weeds  overlap  its  gun- 
wales, with  a  sound  somewhat 
like  a  sigh.  I  know  not  whether 
it  be  a  sough  of  relief  or  of  re- 
gret. Afloat  again  on  Little  Otter,  I  feel  some- 
thing of  the  old  exhilaration  that  warmed  my  heart 
when  I  first  beheld  it  shining  like  a  floor  of  silver 
at  my  feet;  something  of  the  delightful  trepidation 
that  thrilled  me  when,  with  old  Mingo  Niles,  the 
good  black  angel  of  my  childhood,  as  caretaker  and 
boatman,  I  first  adventured  upon  these  waters. 
Back  through  the  lapse  of  years  come  to  me  the 
childish  awe  of  the  dark  water  only  an  inch  board's 
thickness  under  foot  and  encompassing  me  all 
about;  the  wonder  at  strange  sights,  the  delight  at 
being  here  at  last  in  the  fulfilment  of  the  vague 
promise  that  I  might  usome  time  go  a-fishing  with 
Mingo, "  in  what  had  seemed  such  far-away,  almost 
unattainable  waters  as  they  gleamed  in  the  breadth 

23 


Hunting   Without  a   Gun. 

of  their  springtime  encroachment  on  marshes  and 
lowland,  or  in  summertime  ribboned  the  green 
levels  with  a  silvern  or  golden  or  azure  band.  The 
memory  of  those  sensations  is  revived  with  such 
vividness  that  I  am  appalled  by  the  swiftness  of 
time.  It  was  more  than  forty  years  ago,  and  yet 
it  seems  that  it  might  have  been  but  last  summer. 
Can  it  be  that  in  so  short  a  time  the  little  tow- 
headed  boy  has  come  to  man's  estate  and  grown  old 
enough  to  be  grizzly?  Looking  down  into  the 
still  waters,  the  gray-bearded  face  I  see  there  re- 
turning my  questioning  gaze  with  something  of 
wistfulness,  something  of  reproach,  answers,  uYes, 
even  so ;  and  with  youth  old  friends  are  gone,  and 
in  the  swift  years  old  scenes  have  changed. "  I  am 
constrained  to  admit  that  even  so  it  is,  but  breathe 
a  silent  prayer  that  my  heart  may  continue  some- 
what longer  in  youth  and  in  the  enjoyment  of  what 
in  youth  delighted  it.  With  these  softening 
memories  upon  me  I  have  no  desire  to  kill  any- 
thing, not  even  time,  though  I  wish  I  might  cripple 
him  as  he  has  me,  and  retard  his  flight  a  little,  and 
am  quite  as  happy  in  hunting  without  a  gun  to- 
day as  I  would  be  with  the  most  approved  and  im- 
proved hammerless.  Indeed,  I  would  not  hunt 
with  a  hammerless  gun.  I  wish  to  see  how  a  gun 
does  it  when  I  take  a  shot  at  a  bird  on  the  wing, 

24 


Little  Otter. 


or,  as  often  happens  in  my 
experience,  how  it  does 
not  do  it.  If  I  am  to  hunt 
with  a  gun,  give  me  at 
least  the  time-honored  form 
and  semblance  of  the 
weapon.  Presently,  I  doubt 
not,  we  shall  be  given 
that  safe  ideal  gun  of 

the  Old  Woman's    Uwithout       "  SUCH  FAR  AW  AY  UNATTAINABLE 

WATERS," 

25 


Hunting  Without  a   Gun. 

lock,  stock  or  barrel/'  and  as  the  rapid  disappear* 
ance  of  game  would  indicate,  presently  such  a  gun 
will  be  as  good  as  any.  Then  we  may  all  go  hunt- 
ing without  any  show  of  a  gun,  and  enjoy  the 
pleasant  and  quiet  pastime  of  shooting  without  fire, 
smoke,  noise — or  game.  So  I  am  hunting  to-day,  in 
close  time  for  all  fowl  but  those  that  no  one  but  a 
murderer  of  innocents  would  care  to  kill. 

Such  is  my  unprotected  friend,  the  kingfisher, 
who  comes  jerking  his  clatter  along  the  channel  till 
he  spies  my  harmless  craft,  then  sheers  off,  distrust- 
ful of  all  mankind.  Far  astern  he  poises  in  flutter- 
ing steadfastness  over  the  waterway,  then  drops 
like  an  arrow  fallen  from  the  sky,  throwing  an  up- 
burst  of  crystal  drops  skyward.  I  hope  he  got  his 
prey;  it  was  no  fish  that  I  care  for  and  it  will  com- 
fort him  greatly.  With  such  approval  he  might 
greet  my  taking  of  the  pickerel  that  is  forever  rob- 
bing him  of  his  minnows.  Also  unprotected,  a  bit- 
tern starts  from  his  damp  seat  among  the  weeds 
with  a  guttural  squawk.  Then  a  stately  heron 
breaks  from  his  statuesque  guard  of  a  minnowy 
shoal  and  fans  his  way  to  some  more  undisturbed 
retreat. 

It  must  have  been  hereabouts  that  Tom  Sweet 
belabored  with  his  paddle  and  drowned  his  bear, 
the  only  bear  of  whose  death  there  is  any  tradition 

26 


Little  Otter. 

in  this  neighborhood,  and  a  memorable  instance  of 
the  success  that  hunting  without  a  gun  may  bring, 
for  Tom  had  only  come  a-fishing  from  the  back 
side  of  the  township,  armed  with  no  deadlier 
weapons  than  his  fishpole  and  paddle. 

Rounding  the  bend,  half-way  between  the 
Myers  Landing  and  the  Sattley  Landing,  I  come  to 
the  turn  of  the  channel  that  I  can  never  forget 
while  I  remember  anything  of  the  stream,  for  here 
I  killed  my  first  duck,  shooting  it  on  the  wing, 
astonishing  myself  no  less  than  Jule  Dop,  who 
paddled  the  boat  for  me.  It  was  enough  glory  for 
one  day  to  have  that  matchless  paddler  regard  me 
with  unfeigned  admiration,  and  he  not  less  than 
three  years  my  elder,  and,  as  his  mother  said, 
"Lawge  of  his  age  an1  smawt  as  he  was  lawge !" 

If  I  might  by  any  shot  at  anything,  once  more 
have  my  heart  warmed  with  such  exhilarating  fire 
as  that  shot  set  aflame  in  it,  I  could  not  with 
any  sincerity  recommend  this  blood-guiltless  hunt- 
ing, nor  practice  what  I  now  uphold. 

Poor  Jule !  many  years  ago,  while  he  was  yet  a 
boy,  he  resigned  this  weary  world  and  tobacco- 
chewing  and  departed  into  the  unknown.  I  doubt 
not  that  Charon  impressed  him  into  his  service,  for 
he  would  not  let  so  good  a  paddler  depart  into  eter- 
nal uselessness.  Poor  vagabond,  he  was  good  for 

27 


Hunting  Without  a  Gun. 

nothing  else,  nor  ever  could  nor  ever  would  be.  I 
fancy  that  in  my  last  voyage  I  shall  be  assured  by 
the  noiseless  stroke  and  undeviating  course  of  the 
craft,  that  Jule  propels  it,  as  I  go  hunting  then,  as 
now,  without  a  gun,  in  search  of  I  know  not  what. 
I  must  confess  that  this  companionless  revisiting  of 
old  scenes  is  somewhat  depressing  to  the  spirits. 

The  yearly  growth  of  lily-pads,  wild  rice,  rushes 
and  sedges,  is  the  same  that  it  was  forty  years  ago, 
but  I  miss  the  old  familiar  trees  that  then  bent  over 
the  marshes  from  the  shores  that  are  now  only 
naked  banks  of  clay,  and  the  broad  primeval  for- 
ests, in  whose  place  are  now  only  dreary  acres  of 
stumps  and  scant  herbage.  I  miss  the  once  teeming 
wild  life  of  the  marshes.  I  do  not  see  one  duck, 
nor  hear  one,  and  few  bitterns,  and  only  one 
heron ;  there  are  not  so  many  kingfishers,  and  even 
the  blackbirds  are  scarce,  scant  flocks  of  them  ris- 
ing in  a  scattered  flutter  out  of  the  wild  rice,  where 
once  arose  a  black  cloud  with  a  startling  thunder 
of  wings  that  made  one's  gun  spring  toward  his 
shoulder  in  expectation  of  larger  fowl  worthier  of 
its  lead.  Some  alarmed  fish  break  the  water  with 
retreating  wakes  at  my  approach,  and  I  see  some 
signs  of  muskrats,  the  floating  remnant  of  their 
late  suppers  and  early  breakfasts,  and  hear  sounds 
behind  the  green  arras  of  rushes,  splashes,  plunges 

28 


Little  Otter. 

and  smothered  squeaks,  that  I  attribute  to  these  lit- 
tle representatives  of  their  long-departed  bigger 
brothers,  the  beavers.  It  is  comforting  to  one  who 
loves  the  inhabitants  of  the  wild  world  to  know 
that  some  of  them  still  fairly  hold  a  place  in  it  in 
spite  of  all  persecutions  and  all  encroachment  of 
civilization.  Every  spring  three  or  four  hundred 
or  more  of  these  fur-wearers  are  taken  out  of  the 
marshes  of  Little  Otter  by  the  trappers  and 
shooters,  and  yet  there  are  muskrats,  and  the 
chance  of  their  continuance  for  many  years  to  come, 
for  it  is  hardly  probable  that  the  water  and  the 
marshes  will  be  improved  off  the  face  of  the  earth 
within  the  lives  of  several  generations  of  men. 

I  notice  as  many  as  ever  of  the  marsh  wrens1 
nests  on  their  supports  of  gathered  rushes,  and 
hear  the  rasping  notes  of  these  birds,  always  re- 
minding me  of  those  well-intentioned  persons  who 
have  neither  voice  nor  tune,  but  will  always  be 
trying  to  sing. 

Button  bushes  are  not  worth  cutting,  even  in 
malicious  spite  of  woody  growth,  and  their  wide 
patches  of  scraggly,  impenetrable  tangle  flourish 
and  bear  balls  of  purple  buds,  white  inflorescence, 
and  green  and  brown  fruitage,  whose  bristling  ro- 
tundity nothing  seems  to  assail. 

There  is  promise  of  a  great  crop  of  wild  rice 
29 


Hunting   Without  a   Gun. 

this  year,  but  the  old-time  harvesters  will  not  come 
in  any  force  to  gather  it,  as  they  did  in  the  days  of 
my  youth.  Then  by  the  middle  of  September  every 
stalk  was  stripped  by  the  hordes  of  ducks,  and  the 
wet  fields  so  cleanly  gleaned  by  the  throngs  of 
blackbirds  that  it  was  a  wonder  how  a  kernel  was 
left  for  next  year's  seeding.  It  is  sad  to  think  how 
the  few  survivors  of  that  countless  peaceful  army 
will  be  harried  by  the  more  numerous  army  of  gun- 
ners, and  will  not  have  a  day's,  hardly  an  hour's, 
truce  given  them  to  rest  and  feed  in  the  midst  of 
this  bounteous  fare.  Sometimes  as  one  considers 
the  ruthless  bloodthirst  of  his  kind,  he  is  almost 
ashamed  that  he  is  of  mankind,  and  then,  consider- 
ing how  little  better  he  is  than  the  meanest  of  his 
fellows,  and  how  much  safer  he  is  to  be  one  of 
them  than  to  be  any  wild  thing,  however  harmless, 
he  is  humbly  reconciled. 

The  blue  spikes  of  pickerel  weed  bristle  as  of 
yore  against  the  pale  of  rushes,  and  the  white  blos- 
soms of  saggitaria  thrive  there,  above  the  spent 
arrows  of  their  leaves,  that  some  time  since  were 
shot  up  out  of  the  mud  and  water  by  invisible 
sprites  of  the  under  world.  The  white  dots  that 
toss  on  my  boat's  wake  as  it  stirs  the  border  of 
rushes  to  a  rustling  of  their  intermingling  tips  I 
fancy  at  first  are  the  breast  feathers  of  some  mur- 

30 


Little  Otter. 

dered  waterfowl,  or  possibly  a  drift  of  castaway 
land  blossoms ;  but  upon  examination  they  prove  to 
be  what  my  friend  the  botanist  tells  me  is  a  species 
of  buttercup — a  milkman's  buttercup  it  must  be, 
so  white  and  so  watery,  yet  nevertheless  a  pretty 
flower. 

In  every  little  sheltered  cove,  or  rush-locked 
pool,  is  moored  a  great  fleet  of  duckweed,  with  as 
unstable  anchorage  in  the  shifting  waves  as  have 
the  myriads  of  water  bugs  that  thrid  the  mazes 
of  their  dance  in  midchannel  and  among  the  lily- 
pads.  I  have  an  impression  that  that  motionless 
green  lump  is  a  bullfrog,  and  slowing  my  stroke 
until  the  boat  lies  almost  abreast  of  him,  I  detect 
the  solemn  wink  of  his  eye,  and  presently  he  begins 
to  'thrum  the  strings  of  his  water-soaked  banjo, 
which  his  brethren  hearing  and  quickly  catching  the 
old  air,  all  join  in  a  melody  of  thin  but  resounding 
bass.  I  am  constrained  to  admit,  much  against  my 
stomach,  that  I  enjoy  them  more  so  than  fried 
in  bread  crumbs,  and  indeed  there  is  less  grossness, 
less  animalism,  in  feasting  one's  ears  than  in  feast- 
ing one's  stomach.  The  twang  of  the  bullfrog's 
chorus  coming  to  our  ears,  the  blush  of  the  apple 
blossoms  to  our  eyes  and  their  scent  to  our  nostrils, 
used  to  inform  us  that  it  was  time  to  go  fishing  for 
upike,"  as  we  always  called  the  pike-perch,  in  de- 

31 


Hunting   Without   a   Gun. 

fiance  of  correct  nomenclature,  as  we  call  our  com- 
monest thrush,  robin.  The  habit  of  using  familiar 
names  is  hard  to  break  in  the  ever-present  tempta- 
tion to  make  one's  self  easily  understood.  Ask  the 
ordinary  country  boy  whether  there  are  any  ruffed 
grouse  in  such  a  piece  of  woods,  and  if  you  get  any 
answer  but  a  blank  stare  it  will  be  in  the  negative, 
possibly  supplemented  with  the  remark  that  he 
unever  heard  o'  no  sech  critter."  Meet  him  half- 
way and  inquire  for  partridges,  or  come  quite  down 
to  the  level  of  his  speech,  beyond  that  unnecessary 
first  "r,"  and  he  will  tell  you  all  he  knows  of  those 
familiar  woods-acquaintances  of  his,  all  the  more 
readily  if  you  are  hunting  without  a  gun,  for  he  is 
jealous  of  those  who  hunt  with  one. 

Floating  lazily  along,  without  even  a  rod  to 
hinder  day  dreaming,  my  thoughts  and  fancies  run 
counter  on  the  trail  of  time,  back  to  the  old,  old 
days  when,  on  the  shores  behind  the  marshes,  the 
border  of  the  primeval  forests  bristled  streamward 
in  a  great  abattis  of  prone  trees  and  trees  slanting 
in  all  inclines  toward  their  final  fall.  Then  the 
moose  and  elk  and  deer  came  here  to  feed  on  the 
succulent  water  plants ;  the  woody  walls  tossed  back 
and  forth  the  scream  of  the  panther  and  the  howl 
of  the  wolf;  the  wake  of  the  otter  broke  the  stream 
that,  in  three  languages,  he  gave  his  name  to,  and 

32 


Little  Otter. 

such  innumerable  hordes  of  waterfowl  as  one  can 
hardly  imagine  now,  bred  here  and  congregated 
here  in  their  passage  to  and  from  northern  and 
southern  homes. 

Waubanakees  and  Iroquois  prowled  in  the  bor- 
dering coverts,  and  neither  for  safety  nor  sport 
would  one  have  chosen  then  to  hunt  or  even  to 
journey  here  without  a  gun. 

These  waterways  were  the  paths  of  the  pioneers 
who  first  adventured  here,  paths  smooth  and  un- 
obstructed in  summer  and  winter,  leading  up  into 
the  depth  and  mystery  of  the  forest.  Where  the 
marsh  spreads  widest  from  channel  to  shore,  or 
where  the  shining  path  stretches  toward  the  sunrise, 
those  travelers  caught  glimpses  of  such  unmistak- 
able landmarks  as  Mozeobedee  Wadso*  and 
Tawabedee  Wadso**  towering  above  this  frayed 
seam  of  almost  unbroken  forest.  Otherwise  they 
saw  only  the  undistinguishable  sameness  of  the 
fringe  of  willows,  the  lofty  palisade  of  water 
maple,  ash  and  elm,  overtopped  by  dark  crests  of 
pines  behind  them. 

The  sense  of  loneliness  and  isolation  must  have 
fallen  heavily  on  those  not  born  to  the  spirit  of  ad- 

*  Mansfield:    "The  Moosehead  Mountain." 
**  Camel's     Hump.     'The     Saddle    Mountains,"    or    the 
"Mountain  where  one  may  sit  and  ride." 

33 


Hunting  Without  a  Gun. 

venture  or  to  the  alluring  love  of  solitude.  I  won- 
der if  those  voyagers  were  garrulous,  and  if  many 
jests  were  bandied  back  and  forth  among  the  crew 
or  whether  they  were  well  nigh  voiceless,  using 
only  eyes  and  ears  and  muscles.  Doubtless  they 
lightened  their  hearts  with  jests,  as  Kane's  men  did 
theirs  in  the  midst  of  Arctic  desolation,  and  were 
not  so  lonely  as  I  am  here  to-day,  though  I  am  at- 
tended by  ghosts  of  departed  friends  who  were 
once  here  in  the  flesh,  and  by  ghosts  of  slain  trees 
and  by  memories — what  ghosts  haunt  one  more 
than  memories — of  sports  that  are  gone  forever. 
Sad  company  are  they,  but  yet  far  better  than  none. 
To  have  seen  them  and  known  them  as  they  were 
in  the  happy  past  is  something  to  cherish. 

All  along  the  creek  the  memory  of  old  home- 
steads lingers  in  the  names  of  landings,  where 
foundation  stones,  a  pit  that  was  once  a  cellar  and 
a  few  scraggy  apple  trees  are  all  that  are  left  to 
show  where  men  once  lived.  Almost  as  faint  traces 
of  human  occupancy  as  the  pot  shards  and  flint 
chips  that  mark  the  sites  of  old  Indian  camps. 

The  same  instinct  of  happy  choice  seems  to  have 
governed  the  white  man  as  the  red,  for  I  think  of 
four  landings,  bearing  English  names,  where  there 
are  traces  of  quite  permanent  aboriginal  occupancy; 
the  Hazard  Landing,  better  known  now  as  Mud 

34 


Little  Otter. 

Landing,  and  better  so  named,  as  anyone  will  at- 
test who  has  set  foot  in  it — and  I  say  it  advisedly; 
the  Myers  Landing,  where  old  John  Myers1 
locusts  still  flourish;  at  the  Davis  Landing,  nearly 
across  stream  from  this,  and  most  notably  at  the 
Sattley  Landing  as  well  as  what  is  now  called 


SATTLEY  LANDING. 

Hawkin's  Landing,  its  former  name  being  lost, 
some  of  the  red  pre-possessors  of  the  shores  dwelt 
long  enough  to  make  a  yet  enduring  mark.  All  of 
these  were  places  where  shore  and  channel  wooed 
one  another,  and  the  access  to  land  or  water  was 
easy  to  lazy  Indians  or  tired  white  men. 

Where  the  East  Slang  is  bounded  by  stable 
shores  of  its  own,  at  the  spot  where  my  friend  Sam 
Lovel  once  built  his  camp,  there  is  a  landing  that 

35 


Hunting  Without  a  Gun. 

never  had  a  name  in  modern  times,  unless  for  a  lit- 
tle while  old  John  Cherbirieau  was  its  godfather, 
there  is  abundant  proof  that  Sam  instinctively  chose 
a  good  camping  place.  On  a  lucky  day  one  may 
find  handsome  arrow  points  there,  on  any  day 
chips  of  flint  and  fragments  of  pottery  to  show 
that  for  reasons  not  all  apparent  now,  this  place 
was  in  favor  with  those  ancient  campers-out.  No 
doubt  they  had  a  name  for  it  as  drowsily  musical  as 
the  gurgle  of  a  brook  or  the  lazy  song  of  a  wood 
peewee.  The  Waubanakees  spend  no  unnecessary 
strength  in  the  triviality  of  speech,  never  strug- 
gling, as  we  do,  with  rough  consonants,  but  just 
opening  their  lips  and  letting  the  smooth  words 
ooze  out.  What  a  lazy,  effortless  sound  their  "yes" 
and  "no"  have,  "Onh  honh,"  "N'  dah."  They 
have  not  to  stir  their  tongues  nor  pucker  their  lips 
to  utter  them.  One  can  but  wish  their  christening 
of  these  streams  had  been  recognized  and  held  to 
by  their  successors.  Such  names  as  Peconktuk, 
Wanakaketuk  and  Sungahneetuk  certainly  are  bet- 
ter than  Great  and  Little  Otter  and  Lewis  Creek. 
They  suggest  something,  even  though  one  does  not 
know  that  they  mean  the  Crooked  River,  the  River 
of  Otters,  and  the  River  of  Fish  Weirs. 

A   bumble   bee    comes   blundering   aboard   my 
craft,  and  after  a  brief  inspection  of  crew  and 

36 


Little  Otter. 

cargo,  settles  on  my  paddle  handle.  I  wonder  if 
he  can  be  the  same  old  golden-coated  voyager  who 
used  to  board  our  craft  in  those  long  ago  Septem- 
ber days  when  we  came  here  duck  shooting.  His 
dress  and  manners  are  most  familiar,  especially  his 
unceremonious  manners.  In  spite  of  statistics,  I 


am  willing  to  believe  that  he  is  our  fellow  voyager 
and  vistor  of  those  days.  Also  that  the  hoary- 
headed  eagle  who  swings  in  majestic  rounds  above 
the  bluff  at  the  creek's  mouth  is  the  same  one  we 
used  to  see  there  in  just  such  noble  flight,  scorning 
this  lower,  creeping  world,  even  when  he  deigned 
for  a  little  while  to  enthrone  himself  on  the  tallest 

37 


Hunting  Without  a  Gun. 

of  its  trees.  It  is  pleasant  to  fool  one's  self  with 
the  belief  that  not  all  the  wild  life  of  those  days  is 
extinct. 

A  family  of  wood  ducks,  the  youngest  well 
grown  and  strong-winged,  rise  out  of  the  marsh 
with  a  prodigious  startling  splash  and  flutter  and 
squeaking,  close  at  hand,  and  offer  such  a  tempting 
shot  that  I  take  aim  with  my  paddle,  and  tell  them 
how  lucky  it  is  for  them  that  it  is  close  time  and 
that  I  am  hunting  without  a  gun.  So  hunts  his 
majesty  of  the  skies  over  there,  above  the  mouth  of 
the  creek,  but  I  warn  them  to  beware  of  him,  for 
he  has  cruel  weapons. 

Poor,  persecuted  wretches,  get  you  into  the 
furthermost  nooks  of  the  marsh,  hide  behind  the 
thickest  screen  of  rushes  and  bide  there,  for  these 
waters  will  be  populous  with  men  who  are  hunting 
with  guns  when  the  first  September  morning 
dawns. 

Somehow  this  dispersed  congregation  of  ducks 
convince  me  that  I  have  had  enough  of  hunting 
without  a  gun  for  to-day,  and  I  turn  my  prow 
homeward,  pondering,  as  the  swallows  skim  and 
wrinkle  with  their  light  touch  the  blue-black  path 
before  me,  on  recent  advice  concerning  the  loading 
of  shells. 


THE  PATH  OF  BOATLESS 
GENERATIONS. 


RESH  fields  for  exploration  and 
adventure  have  become  few 
and  restricted,  and  if  they  had 
not,  there  are  many  who  could 
not  and  many  who  would  not 
seek  them.  We  who  for  one 
reason  or  the  other  never  get  far  from  the  ground 
to  which  our  pioneer  grandfathers  transplanted 
their  families,  must  content  ourselves  with  hun- 
dredth hand  exploration  and  make  the  most  of 
small  adventures.  As  we  till  and  mow,  with  all 
the  ease  a  farmer  may,  the  fields  that  our  grand- 
sires  smoothed  for  us  with  infinite  toil  out  of  the 
old  wilderness,  so  we  float  with  only  the  labor  of 
oar  and  paddle  along  the  streams  whereon  their 
way  was  beset  with  a  century's  downfall  and  drift 
of  bordering  forest.  When  afoot  if  we  lose  our 
way  and  faintly  realize  what  it  is  to  "get  lost," 
it  is  in  second  growth  woods  where  we  can  almost 
feel  the  way  of  the  wind  or  see  it  in  the  drift  of 
the  clouds,  and  we  recover  our  bearings  with  little 

39 


Hunting   Without  a   Gun. 

exercise  of  woodcraft.  It  is  a  greater  adventure 
for  us  to  meet  a  raccoon  than  for  our  ancestors 
to  have  encountered  a  bear;  the  muskrat  and  the 
mink  are  rarer  sights  to  our  eyes  than  the  beaver 
and  otter  were  to  theirs,  and  they  saw  moose  and 
deer  oftener  than  we  see  grouse  and  woodcock. 
But  we  have  more  time  to  look  at  the  little  that 
is  left  us  of  the  wild  world,  and  may  possibly  dis- 
cover something  that  was  overlooked  by  our  toil- 
ing forefathers. 

With  such  purpose,  and  with  a  whole  day  to  de- 
vote to  it,  I  came  to  the  creek  this  morning,  intend- 
ing to  voyage  somewhere,  perhaps  up  the  South 
Slang,  diverging  therefrom  into  Goose  Creek,  and 
as  far  up  as  its  narrow  channel  would  let  me,  or  if 
another  way  should  invite  me  more,  down  to  the 
mouth  of  Wonakaketukese  and  cruise  along  the 
shore  of  the  Bay  of  Vessels,  or  up  the  beauti- 
ful Sungahneetuk. 

But  my  purpose  and  half-formed  plans  were 
frustrated  when  I  found  my  boat  was  gone  from 
her  soft  bed  of  mud,  borrowed  by  someone  who 
had  not  taken  the  trouble  of  asking,  to  ferry  him- 
self across  to  the  Myers  Landing.  There  she 
was,  hauled  up  on  the  further  shore,  not  thirty  rods 
away,  "so  near  and  yet  so  far,"  for  between  us  lay 
impassable  marsh  and  channel.  Should  I  wait  till 

40 


The  Path  of  Bootless  Generations. 

the  unlicensed  borrower  returned,  or  should  I  take 
a  three-mile  tramp  by  way  of  the  first  bridge,  and 
follow  the  shore  around  to  where  she  was  now  lying  ? 
It  would  be  long  waiting  if  my  unknown  benefi- 
ciary should  choose  to  come  back  by  another  route, 
or  not  come  back  at  all,  and  so  of  the  two  the 


DOWN  THE  CHANNEL  FROM    MUD  LANDING. 

longer  and  more  toilsome  seemed  the  easier  and 
quicker  way  to  regain  possession  of  my  boat. 

Lighting  my  pipe  and  shouldering  my  paddle, 
after  a  long  look  up  and  down  the  channel  in  fruit- 
less quest  of  some  friendly  craft  that  might  give 
me  ferriage,  I  took  the  path  that  boatless  genera- 
tions of  red  and  white  men  had  trod  before  me. 
Frequently  it  led  me  under  some  old  apple  trees, 

41 


Hunting  Without  a   Gun. 

the  ragged  survivors  of  the  orchard  planted  a  hun- 
dred years  ago  by  the  old  settler,  Davis.  Near 
them  is  a  wild  plum  tree,  a  giant  of  its  slow- 
growing  race,  a  foot  and  a  half  in  diameter,  stand- 
ing patriarchal  in  a  thicket  of  its  sprouts.  How 
the  old  settler's  children  must  have  delighted  in  the 
fruit  of  this  tree — a  lusty  one  even  in  their  young 
day — poor  little  souls,  with  nothing  to  satisfy  the 
child's  craving  for  such  fare  but  what  nature  had 
impartially  set  for  them  and  bird  and  beast.  How 
sweet  to  their  palates  were  the  red  horse  plums 
while  they  were  awaiting  the  tardy  fruitage  of 
these  seedling  apple  trees. 

I  fancy  that  Tom  Sweet's  bear  was  on  his  way 
to  this  tree,  doubtless  well  known  to  all  the  bears 
that  ranged  hereabouts,  or  was  returning  from  it, 
overladen  with  a  paunchful  of  unstoned  plums, 
when  the  valorous  old  fisherman  overtook  him  in 
midchannel  and  beat  the  life  out  of  him  with  his 
paddle.  The  elm  Tom  stripped  the  bark  from  to 
make  a  harness  for  his  saddle  horse  wherewith  to 
haul  his  trophy  home,  has  gone  the  way  of  most  of 
our  old  trees,  and  I  look  in  vain  for  a  great  elm, 
with  a  long  scar  seaming  its  trunk,  for  my  imagina- 
tion to  browse  upon. 

The  apple  trees,  that  for  half  a  century  have 
had  no  care,  have  not  lost  all  characteristics  of 

42 


The  Path  of  Boatless  Generations. 

civilization,  but  show  a  manner  of  growth  very 
different  from  the  wild  apple  trees  one  finds  in  pas- 
ture land  and  sometimes  in  the  woods.  The  wild 
tree  of  the  pasture  is  more  like  its  neglected 
brethren  of  the  orchard,  scrubby  and  -beset  with 
sprouts,  but  with  no  such  mark  of  the  pruning  saw 
as  may  be  seen  on  these  trees  where  the  square-cut 
stumps  of  limbs  jut  from  the  trunk,  their  ends 
almost  overgrown  with  bark  and  each  with  a 
branch  of  later  growth  curving  upward  therefrom, 
shaped  like  a  monstrous  teapot  spout.  Many  years 
have  passed  since  their  branches  were  thinned  but 
by  decay  and  storm,  or  their  fruit  gathered  but  by 
the  squirrels. 

What  jolly  uparing  bees"  it  gave  occasion  for, 
uproarious  with  the  unrestrained  fun  of  old-time 
merry-makings,  w7hen  all  the  young  folks  of  the 
wide  neighborhood  gathered  at  the  house  up  yon- 
der to  pare,  quarter,  core  and  string  the  apples. 
Do  I  hear  the  squeak  of  the  fiddle  tuning  up  for 
Money  Musk,  the  squawk  of  make-believe  surprise 
of  a  buxom  damsel  kissed  in  a  romping  game,  and 
the  guffaw  of  the  swain  who  caught  her?  Or  was 
I  only  dreaming,  and  the  sounds  that  caught  my 
ear  were  only  the  chafing  of  a  branch,  the  squall 
of  a  red-headed  woodpecker,  the  cawing  of  a 
crow  ?  Long  ago  the  fiddler  exchanged  his  cracked 

43 


Hunting   Without  a   Gun. 

instrument  for  a  golden  harp;  the  lads  and  lassies 
of  those  days  were  old  men  and  women  when  we 
were  babies,  and  have  slept  for  many  years  beneath 
the  graveyard  goldenrods;  and  their  ghosts,  if  in- 
clined to  visit  the  scene  of  their  junketings,  would 
find  scarcely  a  trace  of  it,  for  the  hearthstone  is 
under  the  turf  and  the  chimney  bricks  are  scattered 
far  and  wide. 

There  is  the  swaying  branch  that  fooled  my  ear, 
there  is  the  crow,  sagging  along  in  flight  from 
shore  to  shore,  and  there  the  woodpecker,  trying 
his  luck  at  fly-catching.  Old  trees  have  grown  too 
scarce  to  supply  his  stomach's  wants,  or  he  has 
discovered  that  it  is  easier  to  bore  thin  air  than 
wood  for  his  food,  and  he  seems  to  be  having  fair 
success  in  this  lighter  industry.  Every  loop  he 
makes  from  his  perch  on  that  basswood  stub, 
though  it  is  done  with  a  jerking  flight,  quite  awk- 
ward compared  with  the  airy  swoop  of  the  king- 
bird or  phebe,  apparently  brings  something  to  his 
maw,  and  he  repeats  his  sallies  with  evident  satis- 
faction. If  he  learned  this  trick  of  the  born  fly- 
catchers, I  wonder  if  he  borrowed  one  of  his  notes 
of  the  tree  toad,  who  must  be  as  intimate  an 
acquaintance. 

A  golden-winged  woodpecker,  happy  possessor 
of  many  befitting  names,  flies  up  before  me  from  an 

44 


The  Path  of  Boatless  Generations. 

ant  hill  with  a  loud  "yarrup"  and  a  "flicker"  of 
gold  and  white.  While  I  am  speculating  on  the 
possibility  of  his  final  development,  with  his 
'groundling  habits,  into  a  woodcock,  I  stumble 
through  a  thicket  of  willows  and  up  starts  the  real 
woodcock,  thridding  the  soft  fluff  of  leaves  with 
a  rapid  whir  so  different  from  the  yellowhammer's 
flight  that  I  am  convinced  that  my  highhole's  way 
to  woodcockery  will  not  be  made  in  my  day.  He 
has  rid  himself  in  some  measure  of  the  loping 
flight  of  the  woodpecker,  acquired  when  trees  were 
nearer  together  than  now,  and  one  stroke  of  the 
wings  would  bear  a  bird  from  tree  to  tree,  but  how 
and  with  what  years  of  practice  shall  he  acquire 
that  rapid  wingbeat  which  surrounds  the  flyer  with 
a  brown  halo,  an  aureole,  if  he  might  attain  it,  how 
manage  those  sudden  shiftings  of  course  that  one 
may  fancy  sometimes  surprise  even  the  woodcock 
himself,  as  they  certainly  do  him  who  essays  to 
stop  them.  Well,  I  am  content  that  he  should  con- 
tinue even  as  he  is,  game  for  those  who  hunt  with- 
out a  gun,  a  delight  to  the  eye  that  sees  him  beyond 
any  intervening  gun  sight,  a  delight  to  the  ear  and 
the  heart  when  his  jolly  cackle  tells  of  the  assured 
arrival  of  spring. 

While  I  stop  to  mark  the  woodcock's  flight  as  he 
darts  away  to  another  of  his  haunts,  I  am  given  a 

45 


Hunting   Without   a   Gun. 

rare  and  pretty  sight.  Another  alights  on  the  soft 
inner  border  of  the  marsh  just  before  me,  arid 
struts  a  moment  with  lowered  wings  and  spread 
tail,  then  daintily  prods  the  mud  with  his  bill,  bor- 
ing till  he  strikes  a  worm,  which  he  brings  up  and 
swallows.  How  he  knew  the  worm  was  there  is  as 
much  a  mystery  as  how  the  squirrel  knows  where  in 
the  unmarked  level  of  the  snow  to  dig  for  a  nut 
and  find  it.  He  alighted  silently,  with  as  little  fuss 
and  flutter  as  the  ruffed  grouse  makes  when  he 
alights,  undisturbed,  and  you  can  hardly  believe 
that  he  is  the  same  bird  who  tears  his  noisy  way 
through  branches  or  air  when  rudely  or  warily  you 
intrude  upon  his  privacy.  He  gives  you  a  lesson 
in  silent  approach  when  he  comes  to  you.  I  make 
a  wide  detour  and  leave  the  woodcock  to  his  late 
breakfast  or  early  dinner,  and  do  not  hear  him 
fly  away,  though  no  doubt  his  quick  ear  has  caught 
my  careful  footfalls.  Perhaps  not  seeing  me,  he 
takes  me  for  some  kindlier  animal  than  man,  or 
possibly  he  knows  that  I  am  hunting  without  a  gun. 
Above  the  Myers  Landing  the  steep  banks  of 
Little  Otter  are  scored  with  frequent  gullies,  which 
in  the  old  times,  when  there  wTere  ducks,  were  the 
coigns  of  vantage  of  gunners,  who,  creeping  down 
them,  were  almost  sure  to  find  a  flock  of  wood- 
ducks  upon  a  log  waiting  for  a  raktng  shot,  or  a 

46 


The  Path  of  Boatless  Generations. 

huddle  of  unsuspicious  teal,  or  a  great  drove  of 
dusky  ducks  comforting  themselves  with  wild  rice, 
duck  gossip  and  aquatic  sport.  Those  old  gunners 
held  the  obsolete  idea  of  sport,  that  its  object  was 
to  get  game,  and  perhaps  they  had  an  eye  to  the 
flesh  pots  as  no  sportsman  has  now,  and  perhaps 
had  another  to  feather  beds,  for  I  remember 
some  old  duck  shooters  who  cared  nothing  for 
a  duck  but  for  its  feathers.  They  never  squan- 
dered their  handfuls  of  powder  and  shot  on  a 
single  bird,  rarely  risked  the  chances  of  a  wing  shot 
at  flocks,  but  patiently  waited  for  great  opportuni- 
ties of  destruction,  then  picked  up  their  ten  or  a 
dozen  birds  and  went  home,  happy  with  the  result 
of  one  wise  expenditure  of  ammunition.  The 
ducks  learned  nothing  from  these  infrequent  les- 
sons of  danger;  and  the  unscathed  ones  were  back 
in  their  haunts  next  day.  But  the  incessant  bang- 
ing of  latter  day  sportsmen  has  taught  the  few  sur- 
viving wildfowl  to  avoid  the  narrow  limits  of  these 
upper  marshes,  where  it  is  now  unsafe  for  even  a 
poor  bittern  or  kingfisher  to  venture. 

As  I  breast  the  further  bank  of  one  of  these  gul- 
lies I  am  painfully  reminded  that  here  I  was  given 
my  first  chance  of  a  shot  at  ducks.  Coming  to  the 
crest  of  the  bank  it  was  my  luck  to  see  them  before 
they  caught  sight  of  me,  a  flock  of  twenty  or  more, 

47 


Hunting   Without  a   Gun. 

sitting  just  off  the  end  of  this  point  in  such  a  hud- 
dle that  a  blanket  might  cover  them  all.  Down  I 
sank  close  to  the  ground,  and  pushing  my  gun  be- 
fore me,  wormed  my  way  through  thirty  rods  of 
ripe  thistles  till  I  was  in  short  range  of  them.  And 
now  I,  who  had  only  for  a  year  or  so  been  per- 
mitted to  use  a  gun,  and  with  no  greater  achieve- 
ment than  squirrel  shooting  to  boast  of,  was  to 
cover  myself  with  glory  and  suddenly  attain  a 
place  among  great  sportsmen.  My  heart  ham- 
mered loudly  and  painfully,  but  I  took  careful  aim, 
remembering  all  I  had  ever  heard  of  the  danger 
of  over-shooting  in  down-hill  shots,  and  then  pulled 
the  trigger  manfully,  without  a  wink  or  a  flinch, 
and  the  miserable  little  thin-shelled  corroded 
abomination  of  a  "G.  D."  cap — may  the  soul  of 
the  Frenchman  who  made  it  never  find  peace — • 
responded  only  with  a  flat  click.  That  mischance 
holds  a  place  among  the  bitter  disappointments  of 
my  life;  and  the  old  pain  visits  my  heart  with  the 
same  first  sickening  twinge  whenever  I  see  this 
spot.  I  wish  the  old  scent  of  the  marshes  and  the 
old  indescribable  aroma  of  autumn  woods  might 
as  easily  come  to  my  nostrils,  just  as  of  old  they 
arose  from  marsh  and  woodland.  I  catch  a  whiff 
of  them  sometimes,  but  faint  and  elusive,  and  not 
to  be  inhaled  with  the  full  invigorating  thrill  they 

48 


The  Path  of  Boatless  Generations. 

gave  the  boy.  Alas!  the  boy's  keenness  of  scent 
has  gone  with  many  another  of  his  youthful 
belongings. 

In  one  of  those  days,  when  I  was  hunting  with  a 
gun,  I  stood  on  the  sticky  shore  of  Mud  Landing, 
closely  scanning  marsh  and  channel  that  seemed  to 
have  no  living  thing  in  or  upon  them,  when  all  at 
once  they  burst  into  teeming  life.  A  hawk,  cruis- 
ing over  the  marsh,  made  a  sudden  swoop,  when, 
with  a  thundering  roar  of  two  hundred  wings,  a 
great  flock  of  wood  ducks  uprose  from  the  sedges 
and  wild  rice  and  at  once  settled  in  the  channel,  so 
safe  from  his  attack  in  the  water  deep  enough  to 
dive  in,  that  the  baffled  marsh  harrier  sailed  sul- 
lenly away.  They  were  far  out  of  range  of  my 
shotgun  and  not  to  be  more  nearly  approached 
without  a  boat,  so  that  all  my  satisfaction  was  in 
the  goodly  sight  of  them. 

This  landing,  the  only  one  of  the  lower  creek 
where  bank  and  channel  meet,  the  marsh  every- 
where else  separating  them,  was  a  favorite  fishing 
place  for  us  boys,  to  whom  boating  was  forbidden. 
Here  we  could  cast  from  the  shore  into  deep  water 
with  a  delightful  uncertainty  of  what  we  might 
catch,  and  also  with  great  expectations.  It  might 
be  that  our  worms  would  lure  only  pumpkin-seeds 
or  perch  or  bullheads,  but  there  was  always  a  pos- 

49 


Hunting   Without   a   Gun. 

sibility  of  their  tempting  a  hungry  pickerel  or  pike- 
perch  or  sheepshead.  These  last  valiant  fighters 
we  valued  only  for  the  fun  of  catching,  the  show 
they  made  on  our  strings  and  the  ulucky  bones" 
which  were  the  inner  adornment  of  their  heads, 
perhaps  carried  by  them,  as  by  us,  for  luck.  I  have 


A   FAVORITE   FISHING   PLACE   FOR   US    BOYS. 

no  knowledge  that  these  charms  ever  brought  us 
good  luck,  but  we  felt  that  the  chances  were  better 
with  a  pair  of  them  rattling  in  our  trousers  pockets. 
We  did  not  know  that  these  fish  were  good  to  eat— 
for  our  mothers  had  not  learned  that  parboiling 
would  make  them  very  toothsome  when  broiled  or 
fried — for  after  wrestling  with  the  toughness  of 
the  first  one,  all  the  sheepshead  we  caught  went  to 
the  cats. 

A  little  farther  up  stream  is  Bowfin  Bay,   in 
whose  weedy  shallows  greatly  abound  the  uncouth 

50 


The  Path  of  Boatless  Generations. 

and  worthless  fish  who  gave  it  a  name.  If  one  de- 
sires only  the  ugoode  tugging"  that  Gervaise 
Markham  promises  to  show  you  if  you  utie  a  hooke 
with  a  Frogge  upon  it  with  a  string  at  the  foote  of 
a  Goose,  and  put  her  into  a  Pond,"  he  may  get  as 
much  as  he  likes  of  it  here  with  the  same  bait,  a 
strong  hook  and  line  and  a  stout  pole,  not  a  rod. 
The  stronger  the  tackle  the  better,  for  when  the 
bowfin  is  hauled  in  there  comes  with  him  all  the 
marsh  growth  within  the  line's  scope.  Of  the  edi- 
ble qualities  of  this  fish  it  may  be  said  that  of  the 
many  who  have  tried  to  eat  him  few  have  suc- 
ceeded, and  fewer  yet  have  been  bold  enough  to 
pronounce  him  good.  -This  may  be  said  in  his 
commendation,  that  in  his  infancy  he  is  much  be- 
loved of  pike-perch  and  bass,  and  so  hardy  that  he 
may  be  kept  for  the  angler's  use  half  the  summer 
in  a  tub  of  unchanged  water. 

Here  is  Potash  Landing,  the  uppermost  of  the 
lower  creek  on  this  bank  and  named  for  the  potash 
works  that  stood  here  in  old  times.  Here  in 
older  times  the  proprietor's  clerk  of  this  township 
suffered  the  loss  of  the  land  records  in  his  keeping, 
"about  forty  deeds  for  about  six  thousand  acors." 
The  mishap,  which  befell  "the  3  day  of  the  iom., 
1785,"  is  circumstantially  chronicled  in  his  own 
hand  and  spelling  in  the  archives  of  the  town.  The 


Hunting   Without   a   Gun. 

old  surveyor  was  moving  "to  letill  ortor  crik  forls" 
with  his  "wife  and  five  childarn  and  one  woman 
peggy  smith  by  name  and  one  child  was  all  in  an 
open  bote  and  it  was  a  dark  rany  time."  There  was 
nothing  in  the  matter-of-fact  account  of  the  affair 
to  give  one  the  impression  that  these  women  and 
children  were  suffering  unusual  hardship  in  such 
belated,  stormy  travel,  but  rather  that  it  was  an 
ordinary  circumstance  of  pioneer  life,  remarkable 
only  for  the  casualty  by  which  "Ritings  of  grate 
importuns"  were  "bornt."  Wider  apart  than  the 
lapse  of  years  which  divide  them  is  the  difference 
between  our  easy  lives  and  theirs  of  toil  and 
privation. 

It  is  not  easy  to  imagine  these  smooth,  grassy 
slopes,  shaggy  with  the  wild  woods  that  clothed 
them  then;  these  shores,  bristling  with  the  prone 
and  inclining  trees,  through  which  the  "open  bote" 
came  to  the  end  of  her  voyage,  nor  easy  to  picture 
to  one's  self  the  savage  wildness  of  the  gorge  at 
the  falls,  choked  with  an  inextricable  confusion 
of  floodwood  that  the  lithe  mink  could  scarcely 
find  a  passage  through,  above  the  hidden  current. 

The  drought-shrunken  stream  is  too  weak  to 
turn  the  mill  wheel  to-day,  and  the  sawyer  is  idly 
pottering  about  among  the  scant  array  of  logs  in 
the  millyard  awaiting  the  slow  filling  of  the  dam. 

y 


The  Path  of  Boatless  Generations. 

A  footman  need  not  take  the  bridge,  and  I  cross 
the  dribble  of  waste  water  dry  shod.  The  jolly 
sawyer  welcomes  me  as  warmly  as  if  I  were  the 
owner  of  a  thousand  logs,  shows  me  the  latest 
improvement  of  his  mill,  consisting  of  a  new  prop 
set  in  the  labyrinth  of  posts  and  props  that  keep 
the  log  slide  from  tumbling  down,  and  then  takes 
me  into  his  museum,  the  disused  grist  mill,  whose 
inner  walls  are  hung  with  an  odd  collection  of  old- 
time  implements  and  weapons.  To  each  old  farm- 
ing tool  and  household  utensil  of  clumsy  but  honest 
workmanship,  to  flintlock  musket  and  militia  cap- 
tain's sword,  he  sets  some  fanciful  history  of  his 
own  invention,  and  the  forenoon  has  grown  short 
when  I  set  forth  on  my  way  down  the  left  bank. 
As  my  head  gets  above  the  crest  of  a  ridge,  some 
moving  objects  on  the  slope  of  the  next  catch  my 
eyes,  which  presently  make  them  out  to  be  a  family 
of  foxes,  five  cubs  at  play,  and  the  mother  watching 
their  pranks  with  evident  approval  and  pride  in 
their  promise  of  vulpine  excellence.  How  alert 
and  nimble  they  are,  how  different  every  motion 
from  the  clumsy  gambols  of  puppies.  While  I 
watch  them,  forecasting  sport  in  November  days, 
when  I  shall  not  go  hunting  without  a  gun,  and 
freshening  my  memory  of  the  runways  hereabouts, 
Madame  Vixen,  who  does  not  let  pride  get  the  bet- 

53 


Hunting   Without   a   Gun. 

ter-of  watchfulness,  by  some  sense  becomes  aware 
of  my  intrusion,  and  speedily  calls  her  babies  in- 
doors, she  lingering  last  at  the  threshold  to  chide 
me  with  a  snarling  bark.  Upon  closer  inspection 
the  neighborhood  of  her  abode  does  not  betoken 
neat  housekeeping,  for  there  is  an  untidy  litter  of 
bones  and  feathers  strewn  about,  lambs'  legs  and 
turkey  pinions  enough  to  enkindle  the  wrath  of  all 
the  shepherds  and  poultry  wives  in  town.  I  shall 
tell  them  no  tales  of  her,  and  pray  that  she  may  be 
left  to  rear  her  young  in  peace,  that  none  of  them 
may  fall  in  with  any  but  such  as  hunt  without  a 
gun  till  fields  are  dun  and  woods  are  brown. 

Following  a  path  much  used  by  cows  and  fisher- 
men, I  skirt  Hemlock  Point,  where  many  years 
ago  I  visited  a  party  of  St.  Francis  Indians,  trap- 
pers and  basket-makers,  who  were  camped  here  in 
the  shelter  of  the  great  hemlocks.  The  place  would 
not  invite  them  to  tarry  in  it  now,  for  not  a  tree  is 
left  to  shade  it,  and  of  the  beautiful  hemlocks  there 
remains  but  the  name.  With  the  exception  of  my 
friend,  the  sawyer,  and  one  other,  every  riparian 
owner  on  the  lower  creek  does  his  worst  to  strip 
the  banks  of  trees,  to  the  stream's  loss  of  beauty 
and  his  own  of  soil.  I  must  confess  to  some 
un-Christian  satisfaction  when  the  rotting  roots  of 
the  murdered  trees  loose  their  strong,  kindly  hold, 

54 


The  Path  of  Boat  less  Generations. 

and  a  ropd  or  more  of  land  slips  into  the  spring 
floods. 

The  locust  trees  of  the  Myers  Landing  are  close 
in  sight  now,  and  with  the  nearer  prospect  of  get- 
ting afloat,  I  begin  to  rearrange  the  plan  of  the 
voyage  that  must  be  shortened  to  accommodate  it 
to  what  remains  of  the  day.  I  stumble  over  the 
grass-grown  foundations  of  the  old  Dutchman's 
house,  and  wonder  to  what  quarters  of  the  world 
was  scattered  the  dusky  brood  that  he  and  his 
mulatto  wife  reared  here  in  the  shadows  of  the 
locusts  that  he  planted.  There  is  something 
pathetic  in  the  thought  of  those  children,  whose  lot 
was  cast  with  the  despised  race  of  the  mother, 
though  more  of  white  than  of  negro  blood  ran  in 
their  veins.  I  remember  one  of  them,  a  comely, 
sad-faced  woman,  harbored  in  middle  age  in  the 
family  of  a  negro,  whom  in  her  girlhood  she  was 
too  proud  to  marry.  Poor  Chloe,  on  what  shore, 
far  from  this  quiet  stream  you  first  beheld,  were 
you  stranded  by  the  tide  of  years? 

I  round  the  last  thicket  that  hides  my  boat, 
grasping  my  paddle  for  the  long,  strong  push  that 
shall  send  her  swishing  through  the  marsh,  and  my 
foot  is  almost  raised  to  step  on  board,  when  I  dis- 
cover that  she  is  not  here.  The  sole  occupant  of 
her  flattened  bed  of  rushes  is  a  big  bullfrog,  who 

55 


Hunting  Without  a  Gun. 

winks  at  me  placidly  over  his  broad  straight  mouth, 
uncommitted  by  upward  or  downward  curve  to  a 
smile  of  derision  or  a  sad  expression  of  sympathy. 
Over  there  on  the  farther  shore,  in  the  very  place 
where  I  sought  her  this  morning,  just  as  far  from 
me  now  as  then,  lies  my  boat  in  the  port  to  which 
the  honest  thief  has  considerately  returned  her. 
If  my  emotions  are  those  of  gratitude  or  of  a 
quite  opposite  character,  I  have  no  language 
wherewith  to  give  them  expression,  but  if  that  fel- 
low were  within  fifty  yards  of  me  at  this  moment, 
I  am  inclined  to  believe  that  he  would  have  reason 
to  be  thankful  that  I  am  hunting  to-day  without 
a  gun. 


DOWN  AMONG  THE  FISHES. 
I. 

|N  the  cool  shadow  of  an  aban- 
doned scow  that  lay  fast 
aground  on  the  bank,  with  her 
battered  bow  half  hidden  in  a 
pillow  of  ferns,  an  old  bass  was 
taking  his  ease  of  a  June  morn- 
ing. It  was  just  after  his  daintily  chosen  break- 
fast, the  pick  of  the  swimming  and  flying  things 
around  and  above  him — a  silver-scaled,  soft-finned 
minnow,  a  delicate  little  spotted  frog  and  two  or 
three  gaudy  flies,  most  prized  because  hardest  to 
catch.  He  was  an  aristocrat  of  fishes,  with  the  cor- 
ners of  his  mouth  reaching  back  no  further  than  the 
middle  of  his  eyes,  the  slight  jutting  of  his  under 
jaw,  the  thin,  fine  scales  of  his  bronze  armor,  the 
nine  sharp  spines  of  the  first  dorsal — all  betoken- 
ing the  blue  blood  of  the  small-mouthed  bass.  He 
was  a  fish  of  weight — a  good  five  pounds — in  his 
community,  and  a  patriarch,  to  whose  opinions 
born  of  much  experience  most  of  the  bass  in  the 

57 


Hunting  Without  a  Gun. 

stream  deferred,  and  often  came  to  him  for  advice 
and  to  listen  to  his  stories  of  adventure. 

Just  now  there  were  none  of  his  kind  near  him 
save  his  wife,  who  hovered  about  mid-stream 
vigilantly  guarding  the  bed  where  her  eggs,  fast 
glued  to  the  fine  gravel,  awaited  hatching.  If  a 
water-logged  twig  or  chip  came  tumbling  along  the 
bottom  threatening  to  pollute  the  sacred  precincts, 
she  seized  it  before  it  found  lodgment  and  set  it 
adrift  at  a  safe  distance  down  stream.  If  any 
perch,  sunfish  or  ugly  bullhead  imprudently  ven- 
tured nearer  than  suited  her  ladyship,  she  would 
rush  at  them  with  a  short  but  terribly  menacing 
rush  that  sent  them  scurrying  far  out  of  sight.  But 
when  a  sucker  came  rooting  along  the  bottom  with 
his  ridiculous  looking  snout,  he  was  met  by  a  more 
furious  and  persistent  charge  that  drove  him  well 
out  of  the  neighborhood;  for  well  she  knew  what 
destruction  that  toothless  mouth  meant  to  eggs. 
While  she  was  absent  in  the  chase,  her  lord,  who 
all  the  while  was  holding  his  place  against  the  cur- 
rent with  a  slight  motion  of  his  tail,  moved  a  little 
out  stream  and  kept  guard.  It  needed  but  a  turn- 
ing of  his  grim  front  toward  the  small  fry  to  send 
them  off  in  swift  retreat;  but  the  great  spotted 
pickerel  that  came  sculling  leisurely  up  stream, 
glaring  wickedly  about  in  supreme  indifference  to 

58 


Down  Among  the  Fishes. 

his  many  enemies — friends  he  had  not — was  not 
scared  by  any  such  slight  demonstrations.  Soft- 
finned  though  he  was,  the  cavernous  mouth  and  its 
glistening  rows  of  teeth,  sharp  as  daggers,  were  not 
to  be  despised.  There  was  no  need  for  quarreling 
with  him  now,  for  he  was  not  notorious  as  a  de- 
vourer  of  spawn,  but  the  presence  of  the  insatiate 
destroyer  of  young  fish,  even  to  cannibalism,  was 
intolerable  to  all  parents  of  fishes. 

"May  I  ask  you  to  pass  on  if  you're  going  up 
stream  ?"  said  the  bass,  fiercely  regarding  his  big 
enemy. 

"S'posen  I  hain't  goin'  tu?  If  it's  your  mis'able 
aigs  you're  so  scared  on,  don't  worry;  I  don't  want 
'em;  an'  I'm  goin'  when  I  git  ready." 

"Perhaps  so,"  said  the  bass,  who  just  then  saw 
madame  returning,  and  made  a  signal,  whereupon 
she  boldly  faced  the  enemy.  While  she  thus  en- 
gaged his  attention,  her  lord  set  the  spines  of  his 
back  fin  and  made  a  furious  charge,  raking  the 
pickerel's  belly  till  the  scales  rattled  and  blood 
flowed  out  between  them.  So  swift  and  unexpected 
was  the  charge  and  the  manner  of  delivery,  that 
the  great  fish,  twice  the  size  of  'both  assailants, 
turned  and  fled  down  the  river.  Congratulating 
themselves  upon  their  easily  won  victory,  they  re- 
sumed their  places,  she,  over  the  bed,  he,  under  the 

59 


Hunting   Without  a   Gun. 

scow,  whence  he  began  a  watch  for  something  to 
satisfy  his  appetite,  which  recent  exercise  had 
sharpened.  Nothing  appeared  but  a  company  of 
four  well-grown  bass  on  their  way  to  the  spawning 
ground  further  up  the  river.  In  whatever  haste 
they  might  be,  they  must  need  wait  on  the  patriarch 
for  advice,  which  he  was  willing  enough  to  impart, 
though  they  harrowed  his  feelings  with  an  account 
of  a  feast  of  minnows  they  enjoyed  in  a  shallow 
near  the  lake. 

"Never  mind,"  said  he,  cheerfully;  "there'll  be 
something  along  by  and  by.  Why  do  you  go  up 
into  the  shallow  water?" 

A  pert  young  bass  took  it  upon  himself  to 
answer,  "Oh,  we  want  swift,  well-aerated  water. 
It's  healthier  than  this  sluggish  stuff,  and  food  is 
plentier.  Besides  that,  we  have  a  better  chance  to 
look  out  and  see  the  world  in  shallow  water." 

"Yes,  and  the  world  has  the  same  chance  to  see 
you,"  the  patriarch  said.  "You  cannot  make  your 
beds  nor  get  yourselves  out  of  sight  of  every  man 
and  boy  who  passes  along  the  banks,  as  well  as 
every  mink  that  comes  a-hunting  by  land  or  water, 
and  the  fish-hawks  and  kingfishers  that  cruise  in  the 
air  above.  Our  bed  is  pretty  much  out  of  sight  of 
all  these ;  they  can't  see  me  through  the  bottom  of 
this  old  scow ;  there  is  food  enough  to  keep  us  fairly 

60 


Down  Among  the  Fishes. 

comfortable,  and  the  water  isn't  bad,  though  it 
don't  go  tearing  over  rocks  and  gravel.  For  me 
these  advantages  more  than  offset  all  you  get  up 
there,  and  I  ought  to  know,  for  I've  tried  both 
places.  I  was  hatched  down  here,  and  thought  it 
too  stupid  for  any  fish  but  bowfins  and  billfish  and 
bullheads  and  eels,  and  those  upstart  cousins  of 
ours,  the  big-mouths. 

"It  is  plenty  good  enough  for  the  low-down  fel- 
lows, for  all  they  take  on  such  airs  because  men 
call  'em  'game  fish.'  The  annoyance  of  their  com- 
pany is  the  objection  to  this  part  of  the  river. 
Well,  as  I  was  saying,  I  thought  this  no  place  for 
bass  of  the  blue  blood,  and  accordingly  determined 
to  select  a  more  suitable  home  when  I  came  of 
proper  age.  My  parents  warned  me  of  the  dangers 
that  would  surround,  but  I  held  to  my  determina- 
tion to  go  where  the  salmon  used  to,  in  the  old 
times  when  they  were  lords  of  the  river  as  we  are 
now,  as  I  had  heard  from  my  great-great-grand- 
father, who  was  told  by  his,  as  related  to  him  by  his 
great-great  grandfather,  who  had  it  from  those 
who  lived  in  the  days  when  red  men  instead  of 
white  ruled  all  the  land.  Those  were  happy  days 
for  fish,  for  the  red  men  wanted  no  more  than 
they  could  eat,  and  had  small  means  of  getting  even 
so  many.  Their  bone  hooks  and  spears  and  bark 

61 


Hunting  Without  a  Gun. 

nets  weren't  much  compared  with  all  the  con- 
trivances of  white  men.  After  a  time,  one  winter, 
when  we  were  all  out  in  the  deep  water  of  the  lake, 
I  found  a  mate — not  this  lady,  who  is  much 
younger  than  I,"  waving  a  pectoral  fin  toward 
madame,  "but  one  of  my  own  age,  whom  I  lost 
long  ago  by  a  cruel  death,"  he  paused  to  wipe  a 
watery  eye  with  the  upper  fluke  of  his  caudal,  "and 
in  the  following  May  we  came  into  the  river  and  up 
through  the  dark  water  to  the  wrinkled  rapids,  clat- 
tering over  beds  of  gravel.  It  was  good  to  breathe 
this  sparkling  water  and  to  see  through  it,  the  over- 
hanging trees,  the  green  banks  and  the  hillsides  far 
beyond,  distorted  though  they  were  into  strange 
fantastic  shapes,  as  seen  through  the  rippled  sur- 
face. There  were  plenty  of  soft-finned  minnows, 
too,  whereon  to  feast,  and  as  kingfishers  were  the 
only  enemies  we  had  seen  so  far,  we  were  well 
satisfied  that  we  had  decided  wisely  in  choosing 
our  new  home. 

"We  swam  on  and  on,  prospecting  for  a  place 
that  should  exactly  suit  us  to  make  our  bed  in,  but 
being  hard  to  please,  we  came  at  last  to  a  kind  of 
fence  of  woven  twine  that  reached  quite  across  the 
stream,  where  it  ran  swift,  deep  and  narrow  for  a 
few  rods.  This  fence  slanted  up-stream  from 
either  end  to  the  middle,  where  it  came  to  a  point, 

62 


Down  Among  the  Fishes. 

which  was  further  extended  by  a  contrivance  that 
we  did  not  then  understand,  though  we  learned  it 
later  to  our  cost.  We  swam  the  whole  length  along 
the  top,  which  was  kept  at  the  surface  by  wooden 
floats,  but  could  discover  no  way  of  passing  but  by 
leaping  over.  I  was  about  to  do  this  when  my  mate 
called  to  me  to  come  and  see  what  she  had  found. 
This  was  a  round  passage  at  the  angle  of  the  fence, 
into  which  we  went  a  little  way  to  where  it  ended 
in  a  circular  bag  that  apparently  gave  us  a  free  way 
up  the  river.  Instead  of  this,  it  opened  to  a  sort 
of  chamber,  formed  of  the  same  kind  of  stuff  as  the 
fence.  It  was  crowded  with  fish  of  several  kinds, 
all  moving  about  in  search  of  a  way  out,  but  ap- 
parently there  was  none.  We  thought  we  might  at 
least  go  out  where  we  came  in,  but  strangely 
enough  we  could  not  find  the  place.  My  mate  up- 
braided herself  without  stint  for  our  being  in  such 
a  bad  box,  when,  if  my  suggestion  had  been  fol- 
lowed and  we  had  used  our  peculiar  gift,  we  would 
have  leaped  the  barrier  and  gone  safely  on  our  way. 
I  told  her  there  was  no  use  in  crying  over  lost  eggs, 
and  the  only  thing  for  us  was  to  find  a  way  out  of 
the  scrape  we  were  in,  though  to  tell  the  truth  I 
had  little  idea  how  it  was  to  be  done.  What  this 
strange  contrivance  was  we  didn't  know,  but 
guessed  it  was  one  of  man's  cunning  devices  for  the 

63 


Hunting  Without  a   Gun. 

destruction  of  fish,  and  if  so,  the  sooner  we  were 
out  of  it  the  better. 

"It  was  not  an  agreeable  place  to  be  in,  apart 
from  the  confinement  and  the  prospective  danger, 
for  the  company  was  not  of  the  best.  There  was  a 
big  pickerel,  a  coarse,  vulgar  fellow  who  scared  the 
smaller  fish  nearly  out  of  their  scales  and  made 
very  free  with  his  betters.  There  was  an  abomin- 
able eel  constantly  wriggling  about,  impartially  dis- 
tributing his  filthy  slime  to  everything  he  touched, 
and  there  were  several  bullheads,  mighty  uncom- 
fortable in  close  quarters  with  their  sharp  horns 
pricking  your  sides.  Then  there  were  two  or  three 
goggle-eyed  suckers,  harmless  looking  chaps,  if  you 
didn't  know  that  their  soft-lipped  under-shutting 
mouths  were  made  on  purpose  for  sucking  up 
spawn.  There  was  a  considerable  number  of  hand- 
some perch,  to  say  nothing  of  ourselves,  to  redeem 
the  genial  character  of  the  company,  yet  it  was 
plain  to  be  seen  that  this  part  of  the  stream  was  not 
free  from  spawn-eaters,  as  well  as  otherwise  un- 
pleasant companions.  This  reflection  was  not  likely 
to  be  of  much  consolation  or  consequence,  as  it 
would  be  the  end  of  all  things  for  us  when  the  men 
came  who  had  set  this  trap  for  us. 

"  'What  did  ye  come  up  here  for?'  the  pickerel 
asked,  in  a  surly  tone ;  but  wishing  to  be  on  good 

64 


Down  Among  the  Fishes. 

terms  with  all  fish  in  these  last  hours  of  life,  I 
answered  very  civilly  and  told  him  our  purpose. 

"  'Wai,  I  al'ays  thought  you  bass  folks  was  a 
mess  o'  fools,  a-fussin'  so  wi'  your  aigs,'  he  said 
with  a  sneer  on  his  wicked  long  face.  'We  dump 
our'n  down  anywheres  on  the  ma'sh,  and  that's 
the  end  on't  for  us;  but  I  reckon  there's  as  many 
pickerel  raised  as  the'  is  bass.' 

"  'Quite  enough  at  any  rate,'  I  said,  at  which  he 
glared  at  me  as  if  he  would  eat  me  but  for  the 
dangerous  look  of  my  back  fin,  which  I  felt  willing 
enough  to  give  him  a  taste  of  on  the  outside  of  his 
mouth. 

"  'We  hang  our  eggs  up  on  bushes,  where  they 
look  very  pretty,  but  the  ducks,  mud  turtles  and 
some  kinds  of  fish  make  us  a  lot  of  trouble,'  said 
one  of  the  oldest  perch,  speaking  up  quite  modest 
and  polite,  'but  it's  the  way  we  were  taught,  and 
we  don't  know  any  other.' 

"At  that  up  spoke  the  impudent  black  fellow, 
the  bullhead,  'Ef  ye  wants  ter  have  an  easy  job 
a-takin'  keer  o'  aigs,  ye  jes'  dig  ye  a  hole  in  the 
bank  an'  drop  yer  aigs  into  't,  an'  then  back  verse' f 
in,  wi'  yer  hade  aout;  ef  anybody  comes  a-foolin' 
'raoun',  jes  sting  him.  Dat's  de  way  I  sarves  'em.' 

"The  eel,  who  was  a  Canadian,  said,  with  a  cun- 
ning laugh,  'De  bes'  way  was  for  nobody  know  de 

65 


Hunting  Without  a  Gun. 

way  how  dey  was  lay  hees  aig.  Den  somebody 
can'  fin'  hees  aig  for  spile  'em  up.  Dat  de 
way  wid  heel.  Nobody  can'  toF  you  if  de 
heel  borned  or  if  he  hatch  off  hegg.  Some  tarn 
one  feller  say  he  come  off  clam,  nudder  feller  say 
he  come  off  ling.  Heel  ant  toF  somebody,  so  he  go 
safe  all  de  tarn.' 

"Just  then  we  felt  the  bank  shaken  by  someone 
approaching,  and  ourselves  more  shaken  by  fear 
when  we  saw  a  man  slowly,  slowly  drawing  nearer 
and  carefully  scanning  the  water  and  searching  it 
with  a  large  hook  at  the  end  of  a  pole.  This 
presently  caught  in  our  network  cage,  and  fixing  the 
hook  firmly  into  the  end  of  it,  he  slipped  it  off  a 
stake  that  held  it  and  drew  it  to  him.  We  all 
thought  our  last  moment  had  come,  and  to  defer  it 
a  little,  crowded  into  the  furthest  corners  of  the 
trap.  The  terrible  man  tried  to  loose  a  cord,  until 
out  of  patience  with  the  stubborn  knot,  he  whipped 
out  his  knife  and  cut  it,  whereupon  free  outlet  was 
given  at  the  small  end  of  the  funnel-shaped  net. 
Then  drawing  the  larger  end  to  him,  he  lifted  it 
well  up  and  emptied  us  all  pell-mell  into  the  free 
water.  Dazed  by  this  unaccountable  deliverance, 
each  hurried  away  after  his  own  fashion,  the  eel 
and  bullheads  and  suckers  to  the  bottom,  the  perch 
made  quivering  streaks  of  gold,  black  and  red  far 

66 


Down  Among  the  Fishes. 

away  in  the  middle  depths,  my  mate  and  I  ex- 
pressed our  joy  by  a  somersault  in  the  air,  and  all 
got  away  to  a  safe  distance  except  the  pickerel,  who 
hid  himself  in  the  nearest  tangle  of  water  weeds, 
whence  he  took  observations.  He  was  a  shrewd 
old  fellow,  whatever  else  might  be  said  of  him,  for 
when  we  fell  in  with  him  shortly  after,  he  gave  a 
plausible  explanation  of  our  singular  release.  He 
said  that  our  deliverer  was  a  fish  warden,  whose 
duty  it  was  to  put  a  stop  to  all  illegal  fishing.  Nets 
were  among  the  prohibited  devices,  and  in  seizing 
this  the  warden  released  us.  Devoutly  thankful  for 
our  escape,  we  pursued  our  journey,  now  over 
wrinkles  and  shallows,  through  swirls  of  swift, 
deep  water,  now  in  the  shade  of  willows,  now  in  the 
darker  shade  of  pines.  Once  we  saw  a  mink  gliding 
along  the  bank,  lithe,  silent,  and  constantly  alert 
for  game.  Next  we  saw  him  poised  motionless 
over  a  deep  pool,  and  after  a  moment  shoot  into 
it  so  smoothly  that  the  surface  seemed  scarcely 
broken.  In  a  moment  he  appeared,  struggling 
mightily  with  a  perch  two-thirds  as  big  as  himself, 
which  he  presently  quieted  and  towed  to  the  bank, 
where  he  fell  to  feeding,  while  the  victim's  fins 
were  yet  quivering.  Seeing  a  perch,  so  large,  so 
easily  killed  by  a  mink,  we  realized  how  dangerous 
an  enemy  he  must  be  to  our  own  kind  of  a  little 

67 


Hunting   Without  a   Gun. 

less  size;  indeed,  we  would  not  have  cared  to  risk 
an  attack  from  him  ourselves. 

"We  were  swimming  near  the  surface  on  the 
lookout  for  flies,  when  a  broad  shadow  fell  upon 
the  water,  and  looking  higher  to  learn  the  cause  of 
It,  I  saw  a  great  bird  with  a  sharp-hooked  beak  and 
talons,  rushing  down  upon  us.  We  had  just  time 
enough  to  change  our  course  deeper  when  he  struck 
the  water  with  a  force  that  carried  him  quite  be- 
neath the  surface,  and  threw  the  spray  up  in  a  great 
shower.  I  barely  escaped  capture,  or  at  least 
serious  injury,  for  one  great  talon  tore  the  mem- 
brane of  my  back  fin,  giving  me  such  a  fright  that 
I  bumped  my  nose  against  the  bottom  in  my  wild 
downward  flight.  My  mate  and  I  lay  for  a  long 
time  quite  still,  but  for  the  quick  palpitation  of  our 
gills,  and  only  after  a  careful  observation  skyward, 
did  we  venture  to  resume  our  journey. 

"Continuing,  we  entered  a  deep,  slow  pool, 
where  many  kinds  of  fish  were  gathered,  resting 
after  the  long  journey  against  the  current.  We 
knew  by  the  steady  tremor  of  the  water  and  the 
dull  thunder  continually  dinning  in  our  ears  that 
we  were  drawing  near  to  a  fall,  and  perhaps  to  the 
end  of  our  travels  in  this  direction.  One  shore  of 
the  pool  was  a  steep  clay  bank,  abutting  against  the 
current  and  turning  the  course  of  it  along  its  side, 

68 


Down  Among  the  Fishes. 

where  lay  the  deepest  water.  The  other  shore  was 
a  gravel  beach,  sloping  gradually  to  the  margin, 
and  so  to  deep  water.  It  was  a  pleasant  resting 
place,  but  too  populous  to  suit  us  for  a  long  stay. 
We  let  ourselves  sink  to  the  bottom,  got  in  the  lee 
of  a  great  stone  quite  protected  from  the  force  of 
the  current,  and  thought  ourselves  well  fixed  for 
passing  a  quiet  night. 

"A  little  after  nightfall  we  saw  a  bright  light 
approaching.  On  its  coming  nearer  we  discovered 
that  it  was  a  torch  of  pine  knots  in  an  iron  crate  at 
the  end  of  a  staff  carried  by  a  man,  who  was  fol- 
lowed by  another,  holding  in  his  hand  a  long  pole 
with  a  sharp-pronged  spear  at  the  end.  They 
came  stealthily  down  to  the  water's  edge  and 
waded  in,  slowly  advancing  as  they  intently 
scanned  the  illuminated  water  before  them,  while 
we,  suspecting  mischief,  as  closely  watched  their 
movements.  Now  their  attention  was  drawn  to  a 
large  fish  lying  directly  above  us,  but  he  seemed 
quite  unconscious  of  it,  or  was  dazed  by  the  bright 
torchlight,  and  when  we  gave  him  a  word  of  cau- 
tion, as  we  swam  aside  to  a  safe  distance  on  seeing 
the  spear  raised  and  aimed  at  him,  he  remained 
stationary,  not  moving  a  scale's  breadth.  The  next 
instant  the  weapon  crushed  into  his  skull  with  such 
force  that  an  outer  prong  came  through  his  jaw. 

69 


Hunting  Without   a   Gun. 

The  stricken  fish  struggled  violently,  dyeing  the 
water  with  blood  as  he  was  lifted  from  it.  When 
we  got  a  fair  look  at  his  face,  to  our  amazement 
we  discovered  it  to  be  our  fellow  prisoner,  the 
pickerel  of  the  trap. 

"The  two  men  were  presently  joined  by  another, 
bearing  a  large  net,  and  the  first  two  at  once  set 
about  drawing  it,  one  wading  to  his  armpits  as  he 
encircled  a  good  part  of  the  pool  and  many  of  the 
fish  with  the  slowly  unfolding  net,  and  then  began 
hauling  it  up  the  beach.  Somehow,  in  the  wild 
confusion  of  fish  dashing  this  way  and  that,  my 
mate  and  I  got  caught  inside  this  terrible  net,  and 
dashing  to  and  fro  to  escape,  ran  against  a  twine 
wall,  now  on  this  side,  now  on  that,  and  now  into 
the  crowd  of  fish  at  the  hinder  part  and  now  on  the 
shelving  beach,  and  almost  grounded  on  it,  so  that 
the  man  with  the  torch  grabbed  me,  but  my  thorny 
back  fin  pricked  him  so  sorely  that  he  dropped  me 
like  a  thistle,  where  by  luck  I  could  swim,  and  call- 
ing to  my  mate  to  follow,  I  rushed  to  the  side  near 
the  top  and  with  a  great  leap  cleared  the  upper 
rope  and  fell  safe  two  good  feet  outside,  my  mate 
close  to  my  caudal,  both  unharmed  but  for  the 
fright  we  were  in. 

"With  one  accord,  without  a  look  backward  to 
see  the  woeful  end  of  our  poor  comrades'  tragedy, 

70 


Down  Among  the  Fishes. 

we  made  such  haste  to  get  away  that  we  were  in  the 
swirl  of  bubble  wreaths  at  the  foot  of  the  falls  in 
next  to  no  time.  As  far  as  we  could  see  in  the  dim 
starlight,  the  wrhite  water  came  tumbling  down  the 
ledge  in  a  long  slant,  promising  hard,  rough  work 
that  was  best  deferred  till  morning,  so  we  took 
lodgings  with  a  family  of  our  cousins,  the  rock 
bass,  who  hospitably  offered  us  refuge.  We  spent 
the  rest  of  the  night  lying  at  the  opening  of  the 
crevice,  watching  the  bubbles  twist  and  untangle  as 
they  drifted  past,  or  now  and  then  a  great  fish 
stemming  the  strong  current  up  to  the  churned 
foam  and  the  foot  of  the  fall,  and  then  drifting 
slowly  down  stream. 

"When  morning  dawned  we  set  forth  to  try  the 
ascent  of  the  falls,  which  were  like  a  flight  of 
stairs,  the  water  pouring  over  each  step  in  a  broken 
sheet,  with  shallow  pools  on  either  side  that  made 
capital  and  welcome  resting  places  for  a  climbing 
fish.  There  were  schools  of  minnows,  and  as  we 
breakfasted  on  them,  we  noticed  several  young  fish 
of  our  own  kind  not  longer  than  our  heads  chasing 
minnows  as  big  as  themselves,  and  remarked  how 
truly  in  these  gallant  fellows  noble  blood  would 
assert  itself.  However,  I  did  not  doubt  that  their 
fire  and  dash  were  imparted  by  highly  aerated 
water  in  which  they  were  hatched  and  bred,  and 

71 


Hunting  Without  a  Gun. 

this  made  us  the  more  desirous  to  raise  a  family  in 
these  upper  waters  in  spite  of  the  dangers  attend- 
ing the  undertaking. 

"As  we  leaped  step  after  step  of  the  rough  way, 
I  was  reminded  how,  according  to  the  tradition  of 
our  old  bass,  the  great  salmon  used  to  swarm  up 
the  same  streams  and  were  speared  by  the  red  men 
who  lived  here. 

"Arrived  at  the  top,  we  found  our  way  more 
easy,  though  the  current  ran  swift  over  gravelly 
bottom.  We  did  not  go  much  further  before  we 
chose  a  place  for  our  bed,  where  the  river  doubled 
a  low  point  of  gravel  and  sand,  with  the  channel 
very  shallow  on  this  side  and  sloping  to  a  good 
depth  on  the  other.  We  selected  a  spot  half-way 
between,  and  carefully  cleared  it  of  coarse  pebbles; 
madame  deposited  her  eggs  and  we  devoted  our- 
selves to  guarding  them.  Now  and  then  the  cur- 
rent would  roll  a  pebble  or  water-soaked  stick  into 
the  bed,  which  had  to  be  removed  at  once,  or  now 
and  then  a  minnow  invaded  the  sacred  precincts 
and  paid  the  forfeit  of  his  life  to  madame.  It  was 
seldom  any  big  fish  had  to  be  driven  away,  though 
this  was  easily  done  by  both  of  us  if  one  could  not 
accomplish  it  alone. 

"Upon  the  whole,  we  congratulated  ourselves 
that  we  were  getting  on  very  comfortably.  But  it 

72 


Down  Among  the  Fishes. 

was  the  fair  weather  that  comes  before  foul,  when 
day  after  day  the  sun  shines  unclouded  to  its  set- 
ting, and  then  there  comes  one  day  dismaller  than 
night,  the  sun  making  no  sign  more  than  if  it  were 
blotted  out  by  the  black  clouds.  I  was  lying  under 
the  bank  one  morning  waiting  for  my  breakfast  to 
come  to  me  in  some  form,  when  it  appeared  in  the 
shape  of  a  fine  soft-finned  minnow  drifting  by, 
moving  his  fins  only  enough  to  keep  his  head  to  the 
current.  It  was  an  offer  not  to  be  refused,  so  I 
dashed  out  and  seized  him,  then  swam  leisurely 
back  and  began  swallowing  my  captive.  It  was 
scarcely  well  within  my  jaws  when  it  was  smartly 
jerked  outward  by  some  unseen  power  that  in- 
creased in  force  the  more  firmly  I  resisted,  where- 
upon I  received  such  a  painful  thrust  in  my  under 
lip  that  I  was  fain  to  let  go  my  hold  on  this 
strangely  armed  minnow,  but  it  would  not  let  me, 
piercing  my  lip  quite  through,  and  when  I  tried  to 
run  away,  holding  me  so  that  I  could  only  swim. 
The  top  of  the  water  was  ruffled  by  a  stiff  breeze, 
so  that  objects  above  it  were  very  indistinct.  I 
could  see  what  held  me,  a  slender  string  extending 
from  my  mouth.  Suspecting  the  cause  of  my 
trouble,  I  jumped  twice  my  length  above  the  sur- 
face, and  in  the  quick  glance  afforded  me  dis- 
covered a  man  on  the  bank  a  short  distance  up 

73 


Hunting   Without   a   Gun. 

stream,  a  slim  rod  in  his  hand,  that  bent  and  un- 
bent in  conformity  with  my  movements,  and  I  per- 
ceived after  falling  back  into  the  water  that  the 
man  had  some  way  of  lengthening  or  shortening 
the  string  at  will,  which,  with  the  spring  of  the 
rod,  kept  a  constant  and  very  painful  strain  on  my 
pierced  lip. 

"I  determined  not  to  yield  to  it,  however  it 
might  hurt,  and  at  last  the  man,  to  save  the  rod 
from  breaking,  was  forced  to  let  me  run  out  several 
yards  of  the  line.  Having  gained  this  small  ad- 
vantage, I  turned  and  swam  toward  shore  with  all 
my  might,  until  I .  reached  a  sunken  stick  firmly 
fixed  on  the  bottom,  and  had  just  time  to  take  a 
turn  of  the  line  around  a  projecting  end  of  it  be- 
fore he  could  recover  the  slack.  He  could  not 
budge  it  an  inch,  and  I  had  time  now  to  rest  and 
recover  strength.  Having  done  so,  I  braced  my- 
self for  a  grand  effort  to  break  loose.  I  pulled 
with  all  the  strength  of  every  fin,  but  the  tough 
line  and  stout  rod  held. 

"Until  now  my  mate  had  not  known  of  my 
plight.  Discovering  it,  she  hastened  to  offer  help 
and  advice.  She  saw  at  once  how  the  sharp  hook 
which  had  gone  through  the  lip  was  kept  from 
slipping  out  by  a  barb,  but  also  that  a  slit  was  torn 
in  the  lip  long  enough  to  let  it  out  with  a  little 

74 


Down  Among  the  Fishes. 

directing.  This  she  promptly  gave,  and  I  was  a 
free  fish  again,  to  my  great  joy  and  thankfulness. 
The  man  on  the  bank  was  not  so  happy — finding 
his  tackle  hopelessly  foul,  obliging  him  to  break 
the  line  wherever  it  would  part,  which  proved  to 
be  near  the  tip. 

"As  he  stood  ruefully  regarding  his  beshortened 
line  and  the  blank  surface  of  the  stream  and  listen- 
ing to  jeers  of  a  comrade  who  now  appeared  on  the 
other  bank,  he  was  scarcely  typical  of  the  jolly 
angler  nor  of  a  contemplative  man  greatly  enjoy- 
ing his  recreation.  He  paid  me  the  usual  compli- 
ment that  is  given  lost  fish,  calling  to  his  friend 
that  I  was  the  biggest  bass  he  had  ever  seen,  which 
somewhat  eased  the  smarting  of  my  lip.  He 
mended  his  tackle  and  began  fishing  again  in  the 
same  place  for  me,  though  he  might  as  well  have 
cast  the  bait  in  the  pasture  grass  behind  him.  His 
comrade  discovered  a  bed  and  dropped  his  hook 
on  it,  carefully  concealed  in  a  worm.  My  mate 
went  at  once  to  remove  it,  but  took  good  care  to 
avoid  its  getting  inside  her  mouth,  holding  to  it  by 
the  upper  end  of  the  worm  as  she  bore  it  swiftly 
beyond  the  edge  of  the  bed.  The  angler  struck 
smartly,  and  the  released  hook  sprang  harmless 
high  above  the  surface,  while  we  two  grinned  to 
our  gill  covers  to  see  the  disappointment  of  our 

75 


Hunting   Without   a   Gun. 

baffled  foe.  He  disguised  his  hook  with  various 
grubs  and  bugs,  which  he  cast  upon  the  bed  again 
and  again,  but  we  managed  to  remove  them  with- 
out harm  to  ourselves,  though  to  his  great  disgust, 
and  he  went  his  way  along  to  where  his  more  lucky 
comrade  was  having  a  hard  fight  with  one  of  our 
brethren.  We  swam  down  to  the  scene  of  the 
struggle  to  advise,  and  if  possible  give  more  sub- 
stantial aid  to  our  kinsman,  whom  we  found  in  a 
desperate  strait.  The  hook  was  fast  far  back  in 
his  mouth,  where  all  effort  to  loosen  it  by  leaping 
or  bringing  a  sudden  strain  on  it  proved  useless.  I 
told  him  to  try  my  plan,  but  the  angler  prevented  it 
by  keeping  the  line  constantly  taut.  We  both  laid 
hold  of  the  line  and  pulled  with  might  and  main, 
now  against  our  distressed  friend,  now  with  him, 
but  could  neither  tear  the  hook  from  its  hold  nor 
break  the  line.  He  was  becoming  exhausted,  and 
could  only  work  his  fins  feebly,  inclining  more  and 
more  to  turn  on  his  side  as  he  was  drawn  gasping 
to  the  shore. 

"  'It's  all  up  with  me,'  he  said,  going  over  on  his 
side  at  last,  to  be  drawn  unresisting  to  the  shore 
and  gathered  in  by  his  captor,  and  that  was  the 
last  we  ever  saw  of  him.  The  victorious  angler, 
showing  him  to  his  comrade,  unblushingly  declared 
him  to  be  much  smaller  than  the  one  he  had  just 

76 


Down  Among  the  Fishes. 

lost,  meaning  myself,  when,  in  fact,  I  was  not  more 
than  two-thirds  his  length.  They  say  these  fishing 
men  always  tell  about  the  fish  they  lose  and  don't 
lose,  until  nobody  pretends  to  believe  them — don't 
know  why  they  do,  unless  they  think  they  are  mak- 
ing amends  for  the  cruelty  to  us  by  this  sort  of  flat- 
tery, for  every  fish  likes  to  be  called  big. 

UA  week  passed  without  any  remarkable  adven- 
ture. We  were  frequently  fished  for  by  men  with 
hooks,  with  spears  and  nets,  all  of  which  we  had 
learned  to  look  out  for,  as  we  thought.  If  a  man 
was  seen,  danger  was  at  once  suspected  and 
guarded  against,  and  we  avoided  all  sorts  of  food 
that  appeared,  until  the  coast  was  clear  of  our  cun- 
ning enemy. 

uOnce,  however,  I  came  near  being  fooled  to  my 
destruction  through  catching  a  harmless-looking 
drowning  fly  that  came  fluttering  along  the  water. 
Just  in  time  I  discovered  that  there  was  a  slender 
string  attached  to  it,  and  spat  it  from  my  mouth. 
Closer  examination  revealed  a  tiny  hook  hidden 
under  the  wings  of  the  sham.  While  I  was  having 
a  close  look,  it  arose  from  the  water,  and  after  a 
flight  high  in  air,  again  alighted  and  fluttered 
along  above  me  as  before.  I  was  already  well 
enough  aware  of  its  character  not  to  meddle  with 
it  if  I  had  not  seen  a  man  wielding  a  very  slender 

77 


Hunting  Without  a   Gun. 

rush-like  rod  by  which  its  movements  were  con- 
trolled. This  he  continued  for  some  time,  accom- 
plishing nothing,  but  tiring  his  arms  and  teaching 
me  a  very  useful  lesson,  and  then  he  went  his  way. 

"The  eggs  began  hatching,  and  the  bed  was 
soon  black  with  a  lively  brood  that  required  con- 
stant care  to  protect  from  an  increased  number  of 
enemies.  Bullfrogs,  crayfish,  water  snakes,  mud 
turtles,  and  many  kinds  of  fish  were  ready  to 
destroy  our  tiny  fry.  Some  were  easily  disposed 
of,  but  many  were  tough  customers  to  deal  with, 
and  gave  us  no  rest  nor  time  to  get  food,  so  that 
the  fishing  men  who  continued  their  persecution 
had  a  greater  chance  to  tempt  us  with  their  lures, 
our  stomachs  being  cramped  with  hunger.  When 
they  offered  us  live  minnows  or  frogs,  we  managed 
to  fare  pretty  well  by  seizing  the  bait  below  the 
hook,  but  we  did  not  dare  try  this  with  worms  and 
insects  offered  us. 

"One  day,  being  as  usual  nearest  the  bed,  I  saw 
a  most  evil-looking  thing  appear  in  the  midst  of 
our  brood,  on  one  of  which  it  laid  hold  with  two 
strong  claws  and  began  ravenously  devouring. 
My  mate  seized  it  at  once  and  crushed  it  with  her 
jaws,  thereby  making  the  discovery  that  this  new 
enemy  was  a  most  delicious  article  of  food,  in  spite 
of  its  forbidding  looks.  This  creature  was  the  hel- 


Down  Among  the  Fishes. 

gramite,  not  often  seen  in  these  lower  waters,  but 
one  of  the  most  voracious  devourers  of  young  fish. 
Next  day  another  appeared,  and  my  good  mate 
pounced  upon  it  without  hesitation.  But,  alas !  for 
her  too  great  confidence,  it  was  scarcely  in  her  maw 
when  instead  of  the  anticipated  pleasant  tickling 
of  the  palate,  she  felt  the  horrid  pang  of  a  hook. 
She  pulled  stoutly,  but  the  pain  was  unendurable, 
and  likely  to  kill  her  on  the  spot,  the  blood  flowing 
from  the  gills  and  mouth.  She  tried  to  bite  off  the 
snell,  but  the  tough  gut  could  not  be  severed.  I 
tried  to  break  the  line,  but  could  not  do  so. 

:  'I  must  go.  Take  care  of  yourself  and  do  the 
best  you  can  for  the  young  ones/  With  that  she 
quietly  submitted  to  her  cruel  fate,  and  was  taken 
from  me  forever.  How  I  managed  to  rear  one  of 
our  helpless  brood  is  more  than  I  know,  but  some- 
how I  did  save  at  least  a  third  of  them  from  the 
multitude  of  foes,  until  they  were  of  an  age  to  shift 
for  themselves,  and  then  left  those  troubled  waters, 
and  ever  since  have  been  quite  content  with  this 
quiet  part  of  the  river,  'as  I  advise  you  to  be. 

"I  have  told  you  my  experience,  and  now  you 
can  choose  for  yourself  between  spending  the  sum- 
mer in  comparative  safety  or  in  constant  danger." 

The  wise  old  patriarch  knew  pretty  well  which 
would  be  their  choice.  As  is  usually  the  case,  they 

79 


Hunting   Without   a   Gun. 

had  decided  on  their  course  first,  then  asked  for 
advice.  They  thanked  him  and  resumed  their  way 
up  the  river.  Not  one  of  them  ever  returned,  while 
the  old  bass  and  his  present  partner  lived  to  see 
that  summer's  brood  grown  to  lusty  fish,  raising 
annual  families  of  their  own. 


80 


DOWN  AMONG  THE  FISHES. 
II. 

NE  hot  day  in  July  a  great  and 
ancient  pike  was  lying  at  his 
ease  in  the  shadow  of  his  own 
roof  of  lily-pads  and  blossoms 
in  as  good  humor  with  himself 
and  all  else  in  his  watery  world 
as  was  possible,  for  he  had  just  swallowed  one  of 
his  great-grandchildren  a  foot  long  who  had  re- 
cently done  the  same  by  a  young  perch  who  had 
just  dined  on  a  plump  minnow. 

Having  all  these  diners  and  dinners  inside  him 
and  no  room  for  another,  he  was  obliged,  if  not 
quite  content,  to  be  at  peace  with  his  fellow  fishes, 
while  he  waited  on  digestion.  Some  of  his  lesser 
kinsfolk  being  aware  of  his  enforced  amiability, 
gathered  about  him  in  the  hope  of  learning  some 
useful  lesson  from  his  long  and  varied  experience. 
Those  who  knew  themselves  to  be  too  large  for 
him  to  swallow  ventured  quite  near,  but  those  who 
were  of  a  size  that  might  find  easy  or  even  crowded 
accommodations  in  his  maw  modestly  took  back 

81 


Hunting   Without  a   Gun. 

places.  Even  at  that  distance  a  creeping  feeling 
shivered  along  their  scales  when  the  old  pike 
turned  a  cruel  eye  upon  them,  as  if  calculating  their 
length  as  to  that  of  his  own  stomach. 

"Say,  Uncle,"  a  5-pounder  of  the  inner  circle 
remarked,  by  way  of  starting  conversation  out  of 
the  channel  of  commonplace  observations  on  the 
warmth  and  clearance  of  the  water,  "I  s'pose 
you Ve  had  some  pretty  clust  shaves  one  way 
'nother?" 

"GluihpP1  The  patriarch  belched  out  a  mouth- 
ful of  water  contemptuously.  uYou  bet  your  gills, 
if  I  hadn't  kep'  my  eyes  peeleder  'n  some  o'  you 
young  fellers  does  I  wouldn't  be  a-layin'  here!" 

"Course,"  said  the  first  speaker.  "But  didn't 
them  't  was  older  'n  you  never  put  you  up  to 
things?  That's  what  we  want."  And  the  5- 
pounder  rubbed  a  bleeding  jaw  on  a  lily  stem  that 
moored  a  purple-bottomed  pad  to  the  great  root 
below. 

"Ah,  I  see !"  The  old  pike  grinned  to  the  gills, 
disclosing  every  one  of  his  cruel  fangs.  "You've 
been  a-foolin'  wi'  some  o'  them  cussed  men's  con- 
traptions. Drowned  'em!  I  do'  know  why  they 
can't  torment  what's  ashore,  instead  o'  comin'  here 
a-bothering  us !  We  don't  go  a-travelin'  'round  on 
land  arter  things  'at  lives  there.  Not  but  what  I'd 


Down  Among  the  Fishes. 

admire  to  swaller  one  o'  their  young  uns  if  I  could 
git  a  holt  o'  one  't  would  go  down,  but  I  never  saw 
one  't  was  small  enough.  Frogs  looks  like  'em,  an' 
that's  one  reason  why  I  luf  tu  swaller  'em.  There 
is  one  pokin'  his  nose  over  the  edge  o'  that  lily-pad 
up  there,"  he  observed  casually,  as  his  keen  eyes 
detected  a  white  chin  a  little  beyond  the  purple  rim 
of  a  leaf,  its  owner  quite  unconscious  of  the  danger 
lurking  so  close  beneath  it.  "Now,  if  I  was  the 
least  mite  hungry,  or  had  an  inch  o'  room  inside  of 
me,  back  o'  my  mouth,  I'd  just  bump  my  nose  agin 
the  under  side  o'  that  pad  an'  off  he'd  jump,  an' 
then—  "  he  opened  and  shut  his  jaws  suggestively, 
and  at  the  hint  a  pike  drifted  upward  from  the 
inner  circle  of  the  audience  until  he  struck  the  lily- 
pad  smartly  with  his  snout.  The  startled  frog 
sprang  overboard  all  asprawl,  and  had  scarcely 
made  a  stroke  before  the  jagged  jaws  closed  upon 
him. 

"Pretty  well  done,  nevvy!"  the  old  pike  was 
pleased  to  remark,  as  the  chief  performer  in  the 
brief  tragedy  complacently  resumed  his  place  in 
the  circle.  "But  I  da'  say  you'd  ha'  grabbed  him 
jes'  so  careless  if  he'd  'a'  come  along  past  here, 
straight-legged,  wi'  a  string  haulin'  of  him?" 

The  unblinking  eyes  of  the  successful  frogger 
asked,  "Why  not?" 

83 


Hunting   Without  a   Gun. 

"Course  you  would,"  chuckled  his  old  kinsman, 
ubut  le'  me  tell  ye,  you  do'  want  ter  tech  no  frog 
'at  goes  without  kickin',  'cause  he's  got  a  hook  in 
him,  an'  he's  a-being  towed,  an',  furder  'n  that,  you 
do'  wanter  never  tech  no  sort  o'  thing — fish,  frog, 
grub,  worm,  fly,  nor  bug,  genawine  or  so  seemin' 
— 'at's  got  a  string  hitched  to  it,  'cause  you  may  de- 
pend there's  one  o'  them  men  to  t'other  end  on't 
a-figurin'  to  ketch  ye,  an'  if  you  tech  his  riggin' 
you'll  git  hurt,  or  wus." 

"That's  so,"  he  of  the  wounded  jaw  affirmed, 
very  emphatically.  "It  hain't  more'n  two  hours 
sen'  I  found  that  out  to  my  sorrow.  I  was 
hungrier  'n  a  mud  turtle,"  he  continued  in  reply  to 
the  inquiring  eyes  turned  upon  him,  "an'  there 
wa'n't  so  much  as  a  drowned  bug  or  a  worm  'at 
had  got  adrift.  I  was  as  holler  as  an'  ol'  caddis 
shell,  when  along  come  a  boat  wi'  some  men  in  it 
an'  scairt  me  int'  the  weeds.  I  noticed  they  was 
a-draggin'  a  string  behind,  but  didn't  think  nothin' 
on't,  an'  then,  as  I  lay,  I  see  somethin'  'at  looked 
like  a  shiner,  an'  when  it  got  ag'in  me  I  just  lit  out 
for  it.  Great  gars !  When  I  shet  on  to  it,  it  was 
harder'n  a  clam  shell,  an'  broke  one  of  my  best 
teeth  short  off,  an'  next  I  knowed  there  was  a  hook 
snagged  in  my  upper  jaw,  an'  I  was  a-bein'  yarned 
along  spite  of  all  my  back-finnin'  an'  crookin'  my 

84 


Down  Among  the  Fishes. 

tail,  an'  takin'  water  into  my  mouth  faster  'n  I 
could  pump  it  out  o'  my  gills.  Then  I  see  it  was 
that  plaguey  string  that  was  a-fetchin'  of  me  to- 
wards the  boat,  an'  I  could  see  one  o'  them  men 
a-haulin'  it  in  slow  and  steady.  I  changed  ends, 
but  it  wa'n't  no  use.  I  was  keeled  over  or  turned 
'round  every  time,  an'  so  when  I  was  most  busted 
an'  choked  to  death  wi'  more  water  'n  I  could  hold 
I  gin  up  an'  let  'em  haul  me,  a-cussin'  my  foolish- 
ness every  inch  I  went.  When  the  man  pulled  me 
up  alongside  an'  both  of  'em  grinnin'  like  two 
clams,  it  didn't  seem  as  if  there  was  a  wiggle 
left  in  me,  an'  I  thought  it  was  all  up  with  me, 
when  the  man  h'isted  me  out  o'  the  water  by  the 
hook.  It  hurt  so  tormentedly  't  I  give  a  kick  wi' 
my  tail,  an'  happened  to  hit  the  side  o'  the  boat, 
an'  the  hook  le'  go,  an'  back  I  come.  You  may 
scale  me  if  I  didn't  hustle  for  the  bottom,  an'  here 
I  be." 

The  old  pike  grinned  unsympathetically,  whereat 
the  other  with  evident  pique  said,  "Wall,  I  heard 
the  feller  't  had  a  holt  o'  the  string  say,  as  I  was  a- 
goin'  down,  'That's  the  biggest  fish  I  ever  see,  an' 
I've  lost  him!'" 

The  patriarch  laughed  till  the  water  boiled 
around  him.  "You  big!  Oho,  my  gills!  That's 
what  them  men  always  says  when  they  lose  a  fish, 
if  it  hain't  no  more'n  a  minny." 

8s 


Hunting  Without   a   Gun. 

"You  are  about  as  big  as  they  make  'em,"  said 
another,  admiring  the  proportions  of  the  aged 
patriarch. 

"Well,  I  hain't  exactly  a  minny,"  said  the  old 
pike,  swelling  his  sides  a  little  more,  "but  you'd 
ought  to  seen  my  grandfather." 

"Bigger  'n  you  be?" 

"Glumph!  he  could  ha'  swallered  you  as  easy 
as  I  could  a  shiner.  There  was  lots  to  eat  them 
times,  an'  a  pike  had  a  chance  to  grow  afore  he 
run  ag'in  some  o'  them  men's  devilish  contrap- 
tions." 

"What  come  on  him?"  the  younger  pike 
inquired. 

"Oh,  he  got  half-blind  an'  kinder  childish  when 
he  was  about  fifty  year'  old,  an'  he  went  an'  got 
ketched  in  a  seine.  Oh,  them  men  is  the  worst 
enemy  we've  got.  Kingfishers  an'  herons  an'  fish- 
hawks,  minks  an'  otters,  all  hain't  a  chaw  of  a 
minny  to  'em,  an'  they  get  thicker  every  year.  I 
wish  't  there'd  come  a  flood  an'  drown  the  hull 
bilin'  of  'em !  They  hain't  got  me  yet,  but  I  spect 
like's  not  they  will  some  time,  always  a-studyin' 
some  new  devilment.  Long  ago,  as  when  I  wa'n't 
more'n  a  foot  long,  they  didn't  troll  wi'  nothin' 
more'n  a  rag  o'  red  cloth  an'  a  piece  o'  pork  rine  or 
a  strip  o'  pickerel's  belly,  wi'  one  hook,  ol'  hump- 

85 


Down  Among  the  Fishes. 

back  grannies  a-paddlin'  log  canews  an'  a-smokin* 
their  pipes  slow  an'  comfortable. 

'Then  they  got  up  shiny  contraptions,  some  'at 
wobbled  an'  some  'at  whirled.  They  didn't  look 
like  nothin'  we'd  ever  see'  afore,  but  you'd  wanter 
ketch  a  holt  on  'em  an'  find  out  what  they  was,  an' 
one  thing  you  allers  would  find,  an'  that  was  a 
hook  hitched  to  'em,  jest  as  ye  will  now  to  every 
consarn  they  drag  'round  in  the  water.  Now 
they've  got  sham  frogs  an'  sham  minnies  'at  looks 
nat'ral  as  life,  but  there's  hooks  to  'em  all,  like  as 
not  half  a  dozen  to  ketch  ye  by  both  jaws. 

"There  hain't  only  one  safe  way,  an'  that  is  to 
steer  clear  of  everything  that's  hitched  to  a  string. 
Then  there's  nets,  an'  they're  made  o'  strings,  too. 
They've  had  a  slap  at  me  wi'  most  all  them  fixin's, 
an'  so's  all  the  critters  that  goes  for  us,  but  they 
hain't  got  ol'  Long  Face  yet,"  and  the  old  veteran 
looked  wise  and  self-satisfied,  smiling  complacently 
to  the  corners  of  his  jaws. 

"Now,  say,  Uncle,  you  tell  us  all  about  your 
scrapes,  won't  ye?"  entreated  one  of  the  larger  of 
his  audience. 

The  garrulity  of  age  was  upon  the  old  pike,  and 
he  needed  little  coaxing  to  become  reminiscent. 
So,  after  a  few  preliminary  gulps  to  clear  his 
throat,  he  began,  while  those  about  lent  attentive 
ears. 

87 


Hunting   Without   a   Gun. 

"About  the  first  clust  shave  I  remember  a-havin' 
was  when  I  wa'n't  more'n  six  inches  long.  I  was 
a-swimmin'  along  in  the  ma'sh  a-lookin'  for  a  small 
frog  or  minny  t'  eat,  when  an1  ol'  water  snake  'at 
was  on  the  same  errand  popped  out'n  a  bunch  o' 
rushes  an'  grabbed  me  by  the  tail.  My  gills !  wa'n't 
I  scairt,  an'  didn't  I  dig  int'  the  water  wi'  every 
loose  fin !  But  his  ol'  gooms  stuck  like  grim  death, 
an'  he  started  for  the  shore,  which  if  he  got  me 
onto,  he'd  finish  me  mighty  quick.  I've  seen  'em 
since,  when  they'd  git  a  fish  on  t'  the  shore  where 
he  hadn't  no  holt  on  the  water,  an'  they'd  down 
him  in  two  skips  of  a  water  bug. 

"I  could  see  the  dead  weeds  a-linin'  the  shore  an' 
the  grass  on  the  bank  above,  an'  thinks,  says  I,  'it's 
good-by,  little  pike.'  But  just  then  I  felt  his  jaws 
slip  a  little  mite,  an'  he  le'  go  to  git  a  better  holt, 
but  he  wa'n't  quite  quick  enough,  an'  I  made  my 
fins  fly  like  a  popple  leaf  an'  out  I  slipped,  his  jaws 
poppin'  together  a  scale's  breadth  from  my  tail  like 
bustin'  in  an  air  bladder.  Afore  he  got  over  bein' 
astonished  I  was  fur  'nough  away,  an'  you  bet  your 
gills  I  kept  my  eyes  peeleder  'an  a  skinned  eel  for 
such  critters  till  I  got  so  big  they  was  fearder  o'  me 
'an  I  was  o'  them. 

"About  the  disagreeablest  feelin'  I  ever  had  in- 
side of  me  was  once  when  I'd  got  to  be  'bout  as  big 


Down  Among  the  Fishes. 

as  you  be,  I  come  acrost  a  water  snake  'at  I 
reckoned  was  about  my  fit,  an'  so  I  grabbed  him  by 
his  ugly  mug  jest  out  o'  spite  for  the  scare  one  of 
his  kind  had  gi'n  me  years  afore.  He  tangled  his 
self  'round  my  jaws  an'  squirmed  an'  hel'  back  like 
a  good  feller,  but  I  chawed  away  at  him,  an'  finally 
gathered  him  in.  He  tasted  wus'n  a  nest  o'  young 
stake  drivers,  but  that  wasn't  nothin'  to  the  feelin' 
of  his  tail,  'at  kept  a-wigglin'  in  my  throat  an'  a- 
ticklin'  of  it  till  sundown,  an'  it  was  in  the  mornin' 
I  ketched  him;  I  never  hankered  after  another  sech 
fish." 

He  spat  out  a  mouthful  of  water  disgustedly  and 
continued  his  story: 

uAnother  time  when  I  was  a  little  feller  I  was 
a-layin'  in  a  shaller  a-sunnin'  of  me,  an'  the'  come 
a  blotch  of  a  shadder  a-skivin  over  the  water,  an' 
stopped  a  piece  off  from  me.  I  looked  up  to  see 
what  made  it,  an'  there  right  over  me  a  bird  was 
a-stan'in'  still  in  the  air  a-flattening  his  wings  an' 
a-lookin'  down  at  me. 

"Then  all  of  a  sudden  he  shet  his  wings  an'  come 
down  head  first,  quick  as  a  raindrop.  'Thinks,'  says 
I,  'suthin's  killed  him,'  an'  I  gin  a  stroke  of  all  my 
fins  so't  he  wouldn't  fall  top  on  me,  an'  he  jest 
missed  it  by  an  inch,  comin'  ker  slosh  int'  the 
water,  an'  pretty  nigh  scarin'  on  me  out  o'  my  skin. 

89 


Hunting   Without  a   Gun. 

Then  out  he  went  as  quick  as  he  come  in,  a-clat-- 
terin'  like  pourin'  gravel  onto  a  rock,  an'  hung 
himself  up  in  the  air  ag'in  to  dry,  I  thought  mebby, 
but  in  a  half  minute  down  he  come  ag'in,  an'  that 
time  right  top  o'  one  o'  my  brothers,  which  he  car- 
ried off  in  his  mouth,  an'  which  I  seen  him  swaller, 
settin'  top  of  a  stake.  Arter  that  I  kep'  shy  o'  him 
an'  his  kind  till  I  got  too  big  for  their  use. 

"I  got  chased  by  minks  an'  sheldrakes  an'  loons 
an'  big  fish  an'  had  some  mighty  clust  chances  o' 
keepin'  the  scales  on  my  back,  an'  the  wust  on't 
was  I  hadn't  no  sooner  outgrowed  one  lot  on  'em 
'an  there  was  another  waitin'  for  me.  When  I 
got  too  big  for  a  blue  heron  to  spear  me,  one  day, 
when  sleepin'  in  the  sun,  down  come  a  broad  shad- 
der  o'  wings,  an'  fcfore  I  was  half  awake  the  claws 
of  a  fish  hawk  \\as  sot  on  my  back,  an'  the  next 
minute  I  was  a-thrashin'  the  air  with  my  tail,  ten 
foot  above  the  water.  I  wiggled  an'  twisted  an' 
snapped  my  jaws,  but  it  wa'n't  no  use.  Up  I  went 
furder  and  furder,  our  images  growin'  smaller  an' 
smaller  on  the  water  beneath  us  'til  his'n  looked 
like  a  swaller  an'  mine  like  a  minny,  an'  then 
a-gittin'  dizzy,  I  looked  up  an'  see  a  bigger  fowl 
'an  my  fish  hawk  a-comin'  for  us. 

uThe  hawk  got  his  best  flop  on,  but  it  wa'n't  no 
use,  the  big  feller's  shadder  covered  him,  an'  his 

90 


Down  Among  the  Fishes. 

claws  was  a-reachin'  for  the  hawk's  back.  Havin' 
all  he  could  'tend  to  to  take  care  of  hisself,  the 
hawk  le'  go  of  me  an'  down  I  went  head  fust,  an' 
then  it  'peared  it  was  me  the  big  chap  was  arter, 
for  he  gin  the  hawk  a  slap  wi'  his  wing  'at  sort  o' 
upsot  'em  both,  an'  then  he  came  a-scootin'  for  me. 
But  I  struck  the  water  a  secunt  ahead  on  him,  an' 
slid  down,  down,  till  my  nose  struck  the  mud,  an' 
he  come  down  ker  slosh  right  where  I  lit. 

"He  gathered  himself  up  an'  went  off  a-rainin' 
like  a  cloud  at  every  flop  of  his  wings,  till  he  got 
to  the  top  of  a  big  tree,  an'  there  he  sot  a-sulkin'  an 
hour,  while  I  lay  in  the  weeds  a-nussin'  my  sore 
back,  an'  the  scars  shows  yet. 

"Mr.  Fish-hawk's  gone,  but  you  can  see  that 
same  ol'  eagle  'most  any  day  a-watchin'  out  from  a 
tall  tree  or  a-swimmin'  the  sky  above  the  top  o'  the 
world. 

"But  of  all  critters  on  this  created  airth,  on  the 
land  or  in  the  water,  or  in  the  air  above  'em,  them 
men's  the  wust,"  continued  the  patriarchal  pike, 
with  an  involuntary  quiver  of  the  fins.  "They 
al'ays  was,  when  they  hadn't  nothin'  but  bone 
hooks  an'  stone  spears,  an'  bark  lines  an'  nets,  an' 
they  git  wus  an'  wus.  The  more  we  1'arn  the  more 
they  1'arn,  a-contrivin'  new  contraptions  faster'n 
we  git  the  hang  of  ol'  ones,  an'  the  scarcer  we  git, 

91 


Hunting  Without  a  Gun. 

the  thicker  them  pesky  two-legged,  gabbin', 
walkin'  frogs  gits.  Wherever  the's  water  for  a 
fish  to  swim  in,  they're  arter  us  from  the  brooks 
that  hain't  deep  enough  to  cover  you  fellers'  backs 
to  the  sea  that's  salter'n  a  pork  rind  frog,  an'  as 
deep  as  from  here  to  the  sky. 

"A  salmon  'at  come  from  it  up  here  tol'  me  all 
about  it.  He  was  spawned  'way  up  here,  an'  when 
he  got  growed  about  as  big  as  them  little  cusses 
that  Stan's  back  there  a-gawpin',  him  an'  his 
brothers  an'  sisters  put  for  the  sea,  where  their 
father  an'  mother  come  from.  They  uster  come- 
back here  every  year,  till  them  blasted  men  built 
so  many  dams  acrost  the  rivers  an'  filled  the  water 
so  full  o'  sawdust  an'  stuff  a  salmon  couldn't  stan' 
it,  an'  now  they  don't  come  no  more. 

"That  oP  salmon  he'd  been  everywhere,  an'  seen 
most  everything,  an'  so  he  knowed  somethin' ;  an' 
me  an'  him  was  thick  as  mud,  if  he  was  a  hey  due. 

"Wai,  he  tol'  me  how  them  men  up  an'  tackled 
whales.  Yes,  sir;  an'  killed  'em,  too,  for  all  they're 
a  hundred  times  bigger'n  any  man  ever  you  see. 
Why,  he  tol'  me  'at  he  heard  his  gran'father  tell 
how  'at  he'd  heard  it  from  his'n,  an'  so  on,  'way 
back,  how  a  whale  swallered  a  man  oncte  without 
chawin',  an'  that  'ere  tarnal  man  lay  'round  inside 
of  him  for  three  whole  days  an'  nights  without 

92 


'Down  Among  the  Fishes. 

startin'  a  hair,  so  the  whale  gin  him  up  for  a  tough 
cud  an'  hove  him  ashore,  an'  you  can  scale  me  if  he 
didn't  walk  right  off  an'  go  to  preachin'. 

"But  there's  sharks  in  the  sea,  some  like  us,  only 
bigger,  an'  when  they  git  a  holt  of  a  man  they  chaw 
him  up  till  he  can't  kick,  let  alone,  gab.  Them 
sharks  make  a  reg'lar  business  of  eatin'  men,  an' 
I  wish  they'd  a  lot  on  'em  come  up  here. 

"Wai,  as  I  was  a-sayin',  them  men's  al'ays  arter 
us  fish  from  the  time  we're  just  big  enough  for  bait 
till  we're  knocked  out  some  way  or  'nother,  an' 
that  makes  me  think  o'  the  first  time  one  on  'em 
tackled  me. 

"It  was  along  late  in  the  fall,  when  all  the  weeds 
in  the  ma'sh  was  dead  an'  rusty,  an'  the  wind  had 
thrashed  the  last  wild  oats,  so't  the  ducks  had  to 
dive  to  git  'em  off'n  the  bottom,  an'  the  wil'  geese 
come  a-sloshin'  in  to  stay  over  night  an'  off  again 
in  the  mornin'  with  the  north  wind  a-chasin'  'em, 
with  both  hands  full  o'  snow  squalls  a-siftin'  out 
betwixt  the  fingers.  Then  one  night  it  quit 
a-yellin'  an'  whistlin'  through  the  weeds,  but  the 
breath  on't  hung  over  'em  cold  enough  to  nip  the 
life  out'n  anything  that  didn't  wear  fur  or 
feathers.  The  mushrats  put  the  last  wisp  o'  thatch 
on  t'  their  housen  an'  took  a  good-by  mouthful  o' 
free  air  that  night,  an'  next  mornin'  the  whole 

93 


Hunting  Without  a  Gun. 

crick  lay  quiet  as  moonshine,  ma'sh  an'  channel 
under  a  sheet  of  ice  an  inch- thick  an'  so  clear  you'd 
bump  your  nose  ag'in  it  if  you  didn't  look  mighty 
sharp. 

"  'Thinks,'  says  I,  'them  cussed  men  can't  go  in 
them  boats  no  more,  an'  we  sha'n't  be  bothered  by 
'em  for  a  spell  anyway,  nor  kingfishers,  nor  hawks, 
nor  cranes,  nuther,  for  the'  can't  nothin'  git  at  us 
from  above.  I  hadn't  more'n  said  it  afore  I 
heard  the  ice  a-crackin'  an'  a-ringin'  over  my 
head,  an'  up  I  went  to  see  what  all  the  rumpus 
was.  Fust  thing  I  bumped  my  nose  ag'in  the  ice, 
an'  whilst  I  lay  up  ag'in  it  along  come  a  shadder 
an'  then  one  o'  them  men,  a  young  one,  a-straddlin' 
'long  on  some  iron  runners,  an'  then  down  come 
suthin'  ker-slam  right  over  me  an'  knocked  me  in- 
sensible. I  wa'n't  so  big  as  those  little  cusses  out 
there,  an'  didn't  know  much  more  proberbly,  but 
when  I  come  to  what  little  I  did  know,  the  little 
man  had  got  a  hole  chopped  in  the  ice  an'  was 
a-reachin'  one  of  his  hands,  red  as  a  perch's  fin, 
down  arter  me  an'  a-hollerin'  to  another  one  of  his 
own  sort,  'I've  stunted  a  good  one,  Jim !' 

"Just  as  he  got  a  holt  I  got  a  wiggle  on  me  an' 
slid  out'n  his  fingers  like  an  eel.  The  wiggle  an' 
the  squeeze  shot  me  off  furder'n  he  could  reach, 
into  deep  water,  an'  pretty  soon  I  got  all  right  in 

94 


Down  Among  the  Fishes. 

my  head  and  body.  I  tell  ye,  I  laid  low  arter  that 
'til  the  ice  got  so  thick  you  couldn't  see  the  sun 
through  it,  nor  scarcely  daylight  'nough  to  ketch  a 
minny. 

"Then  they  cut  holes  through  it  an'  let  down 
hooks  with  live  minnies  on  'em,  too  big  for  me  to 
swaller,  but  many  is  the  good  pickerel  an'  pike  I 
seen  go  a-squirmin'  an'  a-strugglin'  up  through 
them  holes,  never  to  come  back  ag'in.  I  could 
hear  'em  slappin'  the  ice  a  spell,  but  it  didn't  last 
long  in  the  cold,  dry  air  up  there. 

uOne  day  one  on  'em  got  shoved  back  some  way 
arter  he  was  froze  stiff  as  a  billfish's  bill,  an'  I'll  be 
speared  if  he  didn't  thaw  out  an'  come  to  as  lively 
as  a  water-bug.  You  bet  your  gills  he  looked  out 
for  minnies  wi'  a  hook  in  'em  arter  that. 

"It  run  along  four,  five  year  arter  that  winter 
afore  I  got  into  another  scrape  with  a  man,  an' 
then  it  was  one  on  'em  in  a  boat  a-draggin'  a  piece 
of  pork  an'  red  cloth  on  the  end  of  thirty  foot  o' 
string.  I  know'd  the  thing  wa'n't  no  sort  o'  fish, 
but  I  was  just  fool  enough  to  git  a  holt  on  't  to  find 
out  what  it  was;  an'  I  found  out  more'n  I  wanted 
to,  for  I  got  a  hook  in  the  thin  o'  my  jaw.  The 
oP  bow-back  quit  a-paddlin'  an'  gin  his  pole  a  yank 
that  tore  a  slit  in  my  jaw  an  inch  long,  an'  lucky 
for  me  he  did,  for  when  I  buckled  to  an'  swam 

95 


Hunting  Without   a   Gun. 

faster'n  he  pulled,  the  hook  dropped  out,  an'  I 
showed  him  my  tail  mighty  sudden. 

"A  few  years  arter  that  some  cussed  man  got  up 
a  shiny,  yaller  thing  that  looked  some  like  a  young 
perch,  an'  lots  o'  our  relations  got  fooled  with  'em, 
for  there  was  two  big  hooks  fastened  to  it  that 
hung  to  your  jaw  like  a  blood-sucker  to  a  mud 
turkle's  leg.  I  seen  some  on  'em  get  yanked  on 
the  journey  to  the  fryin'-pan,  an'  I  didn't  try  titles 
wi'  the  brass  clam  shell,  but  by  an'  by  some  feller 
fixed  up  a  cuter  contrivance  that  went  skivin' 
through  the  water  slick  as  a  shiner,  an'  looked  so 
temptin'  'at  I  jest  had  to  shet  on  to  it  same  as  our 
friend  here  did  to-day,  an'  I  got  the  same  sass,  a 
hook  in  my  jaw  an'  two  more  just  ready  for  the 
job. 

"I  tried  to  break  the  string,  but  it  hel'  like 
death,  easln'  up  on  me  when  I'd  git  the  best  pull  on 
it  an'  haulin'  on  me  every  time  I  stopped  to  rest 
my  fins.  The  hole  in  my  jaw  wore  pretty  big,  an' 
just  'fore  I  got  tuckered  I  happened  to  think  o'  my 
oP  trick  o'  runnin'  up  on  the  string,  an'  I  tried  it 
for  a  last  chance.  The'  wa'n't  none  too  much 
room,  an'  I  didn't  get  a  good  slack  till  I  was  right 
alongside  the  boat,  an'  under  the  man's  hand. 
Then  I  ducked  my  head  an'  dropped  the  hook,  an' 
down  I  went,  heavin'  a  finful  o'  water  int'  the 


Down  Among  the  Fishes. 

feller's  face  'at  left  him  a-winkin'  an'  cussin'  in  a 
way  'at  'most  spilte  his  luck  for  that  day.  I  tell 
you  that  slack-line  kink  is  the  best  one  I  know 
when  a  feller  gits  his  jaw  snagged;  but  the  best  way 
is  to  steer  clear  of  all  contraptions  'at  has  got  a 
string  hitched  to  'em,  an'  thet's  my  rule,  hungry 
or  mad  or  on  a  tear." 

A  big  lout  of  a  German  carp,  who  had  remained 
unobserved  while  he  was  listening  among  the 
weeds,  now  pushed  forward  and  remarked,  with  an 
air  of  superior  wisdom: 

"Veil,  my  vrents,  I  dells  you  vat  vid  you  de 
madder  vas,  dat  you  eats  oudt  de  flesh  altogeder, 
de  fish,  de  vorm  ant  de  vrog.  Now  if  you  dakes 
only  de  fegidable  you  vas  not  be  drouble,  vor  you 
vinds  not  in  dat  de  hook  effer.  I  vas  lif  here  von 
year,  ant  I  vas  not  be  gatch  alretty." 

"Hello,  ol'  Sour  Kraut !  Is  that  you  a-talkin'  ?" 
cried  the  old  pike,  turning  himself  slightly  to  roll 
a  scornful  eye  upon  the  intruder.  "Wai,  now,  I'll 
tell  ye  what's  the  matter  wi'  you.  You're  so  dumb 
mis'able  the'  don't  nobody  want  ye  enough  to  try 
to  ketch  ye!" 

"Vat  vor  de  beoples  pring  us  all  de  ozean  agross 
if  ve  don't  vorth  somedings?  Dey  haf  you  blenty 
alretty!"  said  the  carp,  growing  red  in  the  gills. 

"Yes,"  the  pike  grimly  conceded,  "an'  the's 
97 


Hunting  Without  a   Gun. 

Spaniards  an1  Dutchmen,  an'  the  devil  knows 
what,  has  fetched  'emselves  over  here  when  the' 
was  enough  better  folks  a-livin'  here  already.  Red 
as  salmon  they  was,  an'  decenter  behaved  'an  folks 
is  now.  A  fish  could  live  then  wi'out  runnin'  ag'in 
forty  diffunt  ways  o'  gittin'  killed." 

"Dey  don't  know  how  to  lif  on  de  fegidable 
like  ve  does.  Dat  de  druple  vas  vid  you  !"  the  carp 
retorted. 

"Why  don't  you  go  up  int'  the  lots  an'  eat 
clover  an'  cabbages,  an'  leave  the  water  to  fish  that 
wants  it?  You  taste  o'  ma'sh  weeds  so't  the  devil 
couldn't  eat  ye,  an'  tough  hain't  no  name  for  you. 
I  chawed  on  one  o'  your  young  uns  till  I  got  tired, 
an'  my  mouth  tasted  wus'n  if  a  family  o'  mushrats 
had  slep'  in  it." 

"You  haf  not  de  guldivadet  balate,  you  vild 
Amerigans,"  the  German  remarked,  with  offen- 
sive superiority. 

"Now  you  git  out  o'  here  wi'  your  Dutch  airs 
afore  I  bite  ye!"  the  old  pike  snapped  out  so 
angrily  and  with  so  threatening  a  movement  that 
the  carp  scuttled  away  among  the  weeds,  whose 
swaying  tops  marked  his  ponderous  progress. 

"Them  furreign  fellers  makes  me  sick  wi'  the 
airs  they  put  on,"  said  the  patriarch,  as  he  settled 
to  his  restful  position  again  and  the  curling  eddies 

98 


Down  Among  the  Fishes. 

untangled  and  straightened  themselves  into  the 
liquid  calm. 

"They  don't  appear  to  think  'at  anybody  can  be 
born  here  wi'  any  brains  in  'em,"  said  one  of  the 
larger  members  of  his  audience. 

uWal,  suh,  dat  hoi'  Dutch  was  feel  pooty 
plump,  prob'ly,"  an  eel  of  Canadian  birth  re- 
marked, as  he  squirmed  up  from  the  muddy  bot- 
tom in  a  swelling  cloud  of  sediment,  "but  Ah'm's 
tol'  you  'f  a  feesh  a'n't  heat  some  feesh  'e  a'n't 
good  feesh  heese'f.  Dat's  de  way  Ah'm's  do,  me, 
an'  Ah'm's  pooty  good  kin'  o'  fish,  me,  Ah  tol' 
you!" 

uYou  call  yourself  a  fish?"  the  old  pike  de- 
manded, glowering  down  at  the  intruder  over  the 
side  of  his  jaw.  "Your  father  was  a  water-snake 
an'  your  mother  was  a  ling,  you  ill-begotten  cuss, 
an'  if  you  don't  quit  a-kickin'  up  that  wet  dust  I'll 
come  down  there  an'  slap  your  jaw  wi'  my  tail." 

At  this  threat  the  eel  doubled  lithely  up  on  him- 
self and  retreated  under  cover  of  the  roily  cloud, 
from  behind  which  he  fired  a  volley  of  mixed  epi- 
thets against  all  the  generations  of  pike  and 
pickerel  that  had  lived  since  the  foundation  of  the 
world.  The  gills  of  the  pike  boiled  with  wrath, 
but  he  restrained  an  impulse  to  dash  after  the  in- 
sulter,  and  shouted  after  him :  "You  nasty  snake, 

99 


Hunting   Without   a   Gun. 

you !  You  know  well  enough  that  the'  wouldn't 
no  decent  fish  dirty  his  scales  with  ye.  But  for  all 
that  the's  men  'at  eats  'em,"  he  added,  disgustedly. 

"An'  that  makes  me  think  it  was  men  we  was 
talkin'  about  when  that  weed-chawer  come  pokin' 
his  nose  into  our  conversation.  Well,  as  I  was 
a-sayin',  I  kep'  clear  o'  hooks,  but  I  swam  into  a 
net  oncte  that  snarled  my  gills  an'  would  ha'  been 
the  death  on  me  if  a  mushrat  hadn't  got  tangled 
up  in  it  clus  to  me  an'  cut  himself  loose  an'  me}  too. 
Then  I  kep'  my  eyes  open  for  nets  in  my  path,  an' 
many  a  one  I  dodged  'round,  an'  many's  the  fish 
I've  seen  hung  in  'em  by  their  gills  a-drowndin' 
or  dead  as  smelts,  an'  others  in  a  sort  o'  bag  that 
you  run  into  an'  can't  find  no  way  out  on  onless  by 
good  luck  a  mushrat  gets  in  the  same  trap  and  cuts 
his  way  out. 

"But  one  time  I  was  a-cruisin'  'round  in  the  lake 
an'  was  a-chasin'  a  school  o'  minnies  along  wi'  a  lot 
of  other  pike  an'  pickerel  an'  wall-eyes  an'  some 
perch,  an'  havin'  lots  o'  fun,  when  all  to  oncte  one  of 
the  hind  ones  shouted,  'Look  out!  the's  a  seine 
a-comin'.'  An'  when  we  looked  back,  sure  enough, 
there  was  an  army  o'  fish  a-comin',  a-rollin'  an' 
bilin'  an'  a-jumpin'  an'  skivin'  an'  divin',  above 
'em  a  line  o'  floats  a-bobbin'  along  in  a  great  half- 
circle,  an'  below  'em  a  line  o'  sinkers  a-scrapin' 

100 


Down  Among  the  Pishes. 

the  bottom  so  clust  'at  they  raked  up  the  clams  an' 
pitched  'em  along  by  the  bushel.  On  come  the 
whole  business,  steady  and  sure,  the  floats  an'  lead 
an'  clams  a-walkin'  toward  the  slopin'  beach,  calm 
an'  serene,  but  all  the  fish  in  an  awful  flurry,  a 
black  swarm  o'  bullheads  a-gougin'  an'  a-hornin' 
one  'nother  an'  everybody  else,  bass  a-jumpin', 
perch  an'  wall-eyes  wi'  their  backs  up  a-rakin' 
everything,  bald-headed  pike  an'  pickerel  makin' 
things  mighty  onpleasant,  suckers  down  in  the 
mouth  an'  lookin'  sorry  they  was  there,  clams  wi' 
their  jaws  sot,  tumblin'  an'  chuckin'  over  one 
'nother  like  a  scowload  o'  stone  upsot,  a  sturgeon 
as  big  as  a  man  a-slashin'  'round  an'  kickin'  every- 
body right  an'  left,  an'  three,  four  eels  a-squirmin' 
back  an'  to,  an'  slimin'  the  whole  caboodle,  an'  all 
scairt  out  o'  their  scales. 

"I  was  scairt  enough,  but  me  an'  a  wall-eye, 
with  his  eyes  a-stickin'  out  so't  you  could  ha'  bit 
'em  off,  we  stood  out  o'  the  thick  on  'em,  seein' 
now  an'  then  a  bass  jump  the  float  line  an'  git  clear, 
but  we  knowed  we  wa'n't  spry  enough  to  do  that, 
an'  the  rest  on'  'em  come  surgin'  along  nigher  an 
nigher  to  the  beach,  where  we  see  two  men 
a-haulin'  on  the  ropes  an'  grinnin'  like  a  catfish. 

uSays  the  wall-eye  to  me,  'Gittin'  'round  the  end 
is  our  only  chance.'  An'  wi'  that  he  pulled  fin,  an' 

101 


Hunting  Without  a   Gun. 

I  arter  him  till  we  come  to  one  end  o'  the  seine, 
where  the  foot  of  the  tommy  stick  was  a-plowin'  a 
groove  in  the  sand  straight  for  the  shore  in  water 
so  shaller  'at  wall-eye's  back  fin  was  a-splittin'  the 
top  on  't  an'  the  gravel  scratched  our  bellies.  The 
man  that  was  pullin'  the  rope  there  kep'  a-floppin' 
it  to  scare  the  fish  back,  but  me  an'  wall-eye  didn't 
mind  that.  Up  went  the  rope  an'  tossed  him  up 
endways,  tail  fust,  an'  down  it  come  an'  hit  me  a 
slap  in  the  middle  o'  my  back,  but  it  didn't  hurt  us 
none,  only  to  scare  us,  an'  then  we  was  safe  outside 
on't.  We  didn't  pull  up  till  we  was  rods  away,  an' 
then  we  stopped  to  git  our  breath. 

"  'Pretty  clust  shave!'  says  the  wall-eye,  a- 
workin'  his  gills  for  all  they  was  wuth.  'Did  ye 
hear  that  man  cuss  when  he  see  us  come  out?'  He 
was  as  big  a  wall-eye  as  ever  I  see,  'most  as  big  as 
I  was  then,  nine  pounds  or  so,  an*  no  doubt  them 
men  felt  bad  to  see  us  git  away.  We  ventur'd  up 
behind  the  seine  an'  see  bushels  o'  fish  a-bein' 
dragged  ashore  an'  that  oP  sturgeon  makin'  the 
whole  shore  shake.  I'd  seen  enough,  an'  I  swam 
straight  for  the  crick,  where  there  wa'n't  no  seine." 

There  was  a  sympathetic  shiver  of  the  audience, 
followed  by  a  silence,  which  was  broken  at  last  by 
a  greedy  listener,  who  asked,  "I  suppose  you  had 
some  scrapes  arter  that?" 

102 


Down  Among  the  Fishes. 

"Not  by  gittin'  into  nets,  I  hain't/'  said  the 
veteran,  looking  at  his  questioner  over  the  corner 
of  his  mouth.  "But  there's  al'ays  somethin'  turnin' 
up  if  a  feller  moves  'round  in  the  world,  an'  maybe 
if  he  don't.  A  clam  even  has  scrapes;  for  along 
comes  a  mushrat  an'  carries  him  ashore  to  die,  or 
the  waves  of  a  big  storm  knocks  him  high  and 
dry,  or  he  gits  a  gravel  stun  in  his  shell  an'  makes  a 
pearl  'at  one  o'  them  men  tears  him  open  to  git." 

"Or  some  ol'  woman  wants  his  shell  to  scrape 
her  kettle,  an'  that's  a  pretty  mean  scrape!"  one 
of  the  lighter-minded  and  lighter-weighted  pickerel 
interrupted. 

"You  shet  your  head  till  I  gi'  done,"  the  elder 
said,  petulantly,  and  then  regaining  his  composure 
in  a  moment  of  silence,  continued: 

"Now  that  nigger  bullhead  a-pollywoggin' 
there  's  a  case  in  p'int — jest  hear  the  critter  sing." 

The  bullhead  was  swimming  leisurely  past  near 
the  bottom,  with  a  devil-may-care  smile  on  his 
broad  countenance  and  in  his  twinkling  little  beady 
eyes,  and  jerking  his  head  sidewise,  with  every 
movement  of  his  tail  keeping  time  to  the  words  he 
was  singing  to  himself  and  chirping  a  creaky 
refrain : 

"Dar  nebbe's  nuffin  like  der  bottom,  karee,  karee,  karee; 
Come  down  to  de  bottom  'long  wid  me." 
103 


Hunting  Without  a   Gun. 

"Sarvent,  boss,  you  seen  any  wums  layin'  'roun' 
heah  loose,  a-waitin'  to  be  gathered  ?" 

"We  hain't  a-huntin'  worms  for  niggers,"  the 
old  pike  growled.  uYou  go  'long  about  your 
business,  will  ye?" 

"Dat's  just  what  I'se  doin',  boss.  Pity  you 
wa'n't  'roun'  when  manners  was  passed !" 

The  bullpout  wagged  on  his  way,  accelerating 
his  speed  but  little  when  one  of  the  younger  pike 
made  a  feint  of  dashing  after  him. 

"Don't  you  never  touch  him,"  the  old  pike 
called  out,  sharply.  uOnce  when  I  was  your  age, 
an'  thought  I  knew  a  good  deal  more'n  I  did,  I 
thought  I'd  try  a  bullhead.  He  looked  as  though 
he'd  go  down  easy  tail  fust,  an'  so  he  did,  slick  as 
a  frog,  till  it  came  to  his  horns.  They  stuck  in  the 
corners  of  my  mouth,  an'  for  all  I  could  do 
wouldn't  go  no  furder,  an'  what  was  wus,  when 
I  got  sick  on't  an'  tried  to  heave  him  out  they 
wouldn't  le'  go.  His  back  horn  pricked  my  upper 
jaw  so  I  couldn't  bite  him,  an'  he  choked  me  so  I 
couldn't  cuss,  so  there  wa'n't  no  relief  for  my 
feelin's  wi'  him  a-laughin'  at  me  an'  callin'  of  me 
all  sorts  o'  fools.  I  tore  'round  till  I  was  pretty 
nigh  tuckered,  an'  had  about  gin  up  'at  I  was  a 
gone  sucker,  when  I  come  along  where  there  was 
a  man  a-fishin'  with  a  worm  on  his  hook.  He  sees 

104 


Down  Among  the  Fishes. 

me,  an'  dropped  it  just  before  my  nose,  an'  I'll 
be  scaled  if  that  bullhead  didn't  open  his  mouth 
an'  take  in  worm,  hook  an'  all.  The  man  gin  a 
twitch  an'  snagged  him,  an'  begin  to  pull,  an'  I 
had  to  hold  back  with  every  fin  I  had;  but  he 
pulled  me  half  my  length  out  o'  water,  an'  I 
thought  he  had  us  both,  when  the  bullhead  come 
loose  an'  went  a-flyin'  over  the  man's  head,  an'  not 
havin'  any  use  for  either  on  'em  any  more,  I  come 
away.  It's  a  pity  a  bullhead's  got  them  horns,  for 
it's  good  sweet-tasted  meat  if  you  could  only 
git  it." 

"Anyhow,  Uncle,  you  can't  say  but  what  a  man 
done  you  one  good  turn." 

"Turned  me  pretty  nigh  wrong  side  out,  if  you 
call  that  a  good  turn,"  growled  the  old  fellow. 
"They  don't  owe  us  no  good  will,  but  they  hain't 
quite  so  rough  on  us  as  they  used  to  be,  wi'  their 
nets  an'  seines  sot  for  us,  an'  a-scoopin'  of  us  all 
the  year  round.  They've  got  laws  ag'in  that  an' 
ag'in  spearin'  of  us,  for  they  don't  want  to  destroy 
us  off'n  the  face  of  the  earth;  but  they're  bad 
enough  yet,  an'  al'ays  will  be. 

uOne  of  the  meanest  tricks  they  ever  served 
me  was  in  the  spring,  years  an'  years  ago.  We'd 
all  been  shet  down  under  the  ice  for  five  months, 
an'  I  tell  you  it  looked  good  to  see  the  sun  a-shinin' 

105 


Hunting   Without  a   Gun. 

down  ag'in  bright  an'  clear  through  the  wrinkled 
water,  an'  the  white  bellies  of  the  ducks  a-swim- 
min'  above  us,  an'  the  mushrats  cuttin'  a  clean 
wake  from  shore  to  shore.  We  could  see  the  naked 
trees  standin'  up  ag'in  the  sky,  wi'  their  buds  a- 
swellin'  an'  blackbirds  strung  along  the  branches 
a-singin'  a  song  that  sounded  like  the  runnin'  of 
a  gravelly  brook,  an'  there  was  stake-drivers 
standin'  'round  in  the  coves  a-thinkin'  they  was 
a-singin',  when  they  made  a  noise  like  an  ol'  pump 
that  won'  draw  without  primin'. 

uThe  sperit  of  the  time  o'  year  got  into  every- 
thing, us  fish  amongst  the  rest ;  an'  I  went  up  into 
the  ma'sh  to  pick  me  out  a  half  dozen  wives.  I 
s'arched  hither  an'  yon  an'  got  up  int'  the  woods, 
where  the  water  stood  clear  an'  brown  three  foot 
deeper'n  last  year's  leaves  that  foxes  an'  'coons 
an'  mink  had  traveled  dry-footed  over  in  the  fall. 
Finally  I  got  away  up  in  the  edge  o'  pastures 
where  cattle  feed  in  summer,  an'  meaders  where 
the  stubble  o'  last  year's  mowin'  bristled  under  a 
foot  o'  smooth  water. 

"There  were  hundreds  o'  frogs  lazin'  *n  under 
the  shaller  water,  an'  on  the  drift  o'  dead  weeds, 
but  they  wa'n't  nothin'  to  me  then,  for  I  found 
two  as  plump  an'  pretty  she-pike  as  ever  you  see, 
an'  was  a-courtin'  'em  up  the  best  I  knew  how,  an' 

106 


Down  Among  the  Fishes. 

keepin'  off  other  fellers  a-comin'  'round.  So  we 
was  a-cruisin'  along  together  in  the  clear  water 
where  the  sun  shone  warm  on  us,  an'  me,  an'  no 
doubt  them,  calculated  showin'  off  our  spots  to  the 
best,  when  I  see  a  man  a-pokin'  along  half-way  to 
his  knees  in  it  for  all  the  world  like  an'  oP  crane. 
When  he  sees  us,  he  up  an'  p'inted  a  long  iron 
thing  with  a  hole  in  the  end  on't,  right  straight 
at  us,  but  I  never  mistrusted  he  meant  mischief 
till  fust  I  knew  there  come  a  stream  o'  fire  an' 
smoke  a-pourin'  out  o'  that  holler  iron  with  a  noise 
like  thunder,  an'  the  water  over  us  was  tore  an' 
shattered  as  if  a  whole  hailstorm  had  been 
emptied  there  all  in  a  heap. 

uNext  I  knew,  I  didn't  know  nothin';  an'  the 
next  I  was  a-layin'  belly  up  with  my  feelin's  comin' 
shiverin'  back  into  my  body.  A  little  ways  off  lay 
them  two  pretty  creeturs  with  their  shinin'  scales 
all  tore  an'  blood  a-tricklin'  out  an'  stainin'  the 
water  around  ?em.  Then  that  mis'able  man  came 
splashin'  out  to  'em,  an'  reached  down  an'  hove 
'em  onto  the  land,  an'  I  hadn't  no  more  'n  heard 
'em  flop  onto  it  afore  he  come  to  me,  an'  was 
a-shettin'  one  hand  on  my  gills.  I  gathered  all 
the  strength  I  had  for  a  stroke  of  my  fins  all  to 
oncte,  an'  I  slid  through  his  fingers  like  an  icicle 
an'  scooted  a  yard  away.  He  took  a  step  for'a'd 

107 


Hunting  Without  a   Gun. 

an9  made  a  grab  for  me,  but  his  foot  ketched  under 
a  root  an'  down  he  come  most  a-top  of  me,  ker- 
slosh !  like  half  an  acre  o'  bank  cavin'  in. 

"But  I'd  got  right  side  up  an'  shot  out  from 
under  him  easy  enough,  an'  he  had  all  he  wanted 
to  do  to  tend  to  himself,  for  he  was  a-thrashin' 
'round,  arms  an'  legs,  wus'n  one  o'  them  sidewheel 
steamboats  out  in  the  lake,  an'  spoutin'  water  an' 
cuss  words  as  much  one  as  t'other.  The  last  I 
seen  of  him  he  was  a-stan'in'  on  the  shore 
a-drainin'  an'  a-drippin'  from  every  p'int  like  a 
wilier  bough  arter  a  summer  shower." 

There  was  a  general  gulp  of  satisfaction  over 
this  disaster  of  the  enemy,  while  the  old  pike 
added,  regretfully: 

"I  was  tumble  sorry  to  lose  them  two  wives. 
I  found  enough  others,  but  none  sech  as  them  was. 
Arter  matin'  time  was  over  an'  the  young  pickerel 
was  hatched  out,  I  was  a-loafin  'round  on  the 
ma'sh  one  night  a-lookin'  at  the  stars  shinin'  do\vn 
through  the  still  water,  when  I  see  a  bigger  light 
that  I  thought  at  fust  was  the  moon  a-risin',  till  I 
seen  it  a-flarin'  an'  the  sparks  a-flyin'  up  from  it 
an'  showerin'  down  like  a  rain  o'  fire.  Then  I 
seen  it  was  in  a  boat,  an'  a  man  a-stan'in'  up 
behind  with  a  pole  in  his  hand,  an'  a-lookin'  into 
the  water.  There  was  another  man  settin'  in 

108 


Down  Among  the  Fishes. 

t'other  end  a-paddlin'  slow  an'  still,  an'  I  begin  to 
'spect  they  was  up  to  some  mischief.  They  was 
comin'  straight  toward  me,  an'  so  I  started  off  out 
o'  their  course,  afore  I  thought  they'd  got  nigh 
enough  to  do  me  any  hurt;  but  the  man  wi'  the 
pole  he  seen  me  an'  let  it  drive  right  at  me,  full 
tilt. 

"There  was  a  five-pronged  iron  thing  on  the 
end  of  it,  an'  one  o'  the  prongs  just  grazed  my 
back.  If  it  had  hit  me  fair  it  would  ha'  gone 
clean  through  me,  for  the  prongs  went  full  length 
into  the  bottom,  so  't  the  pole  stood  slantin'  in  the 
water,  a-tremblin'  with  the  force  of  the  blow.  All 
this  I  seen  with  the  back  o'  one  eye,  for  I  was 
scairt  too  bad  an'  hurt,  I  didn't  know  how  much, 
to  stay  'round  there  lookin'  at  things,  but  just 
scooted  till  the  light  wras  glimmerin'  so  fur  behind 
me  it  looked  like  a  drowndin'  lightnin'  bug. 

"A  lot  o'  my  scales  was  raked  off  an'  my  flesh 
was  tore  so  the  blood  run,  but  it  got  well  arter  a 
spell,  an'  I'd  1'arnt  another  lesson  about  them 
cussed  men.  How  many  more  I've  got  to  1'arn 
afore  I  die,  goodness  knows,  for  there  don't  ap- 
pear to  be  no  end  o'  their  wicked  ways. 

"Say,  is  that  a  punkin  seed  or  a  rock  bass  a- 
comin'?  Don't  ye  never  be  fools  enough  to 
swaller  any  one  o'  the  hump-backed,  spike-finned 

109 


Hunting  Without  a  Gun. 

little  scamps.  I  do'  know  what's  the  good  o'  fish 
bein'  built  such  shape  anyway.  Why,  no,  that 
hain't  a  punkin  seed  nor  a  rockie — it  is  one  o'  them 
'ere  big-mouth  bass  'at  puts  on  more  airs  now-a- 
days  'an  a  wood-drake  in  April,  jest  'cause  they're 
some  related  to  the  black  bass,  'at  them  men 
makes  such  a  fuss  over,  what  for  is  more'n  I  know. 

uBig-mouth  and  small-mouth  is  just  as  comfort- 
able to  swaller  when  they're  young  as  a  punkin 
seed  or  rockie,  an'  when  they  git  big  you  can't 
swaller  'em,  yet  the  men  goes  wild  over  'em,  an' 
won't  let  one  'nother  catch  'em  only  jest  sech  time 
o'  year  an'  jest  sech  ways,  whilst  they  go  for  us  all 
times  an'  all  ways.  See  that  feller  set  up  his  back- 
fin,  an'  stick  out  his  under  jaw  as  if  the  same  water 
'at  held  us  wa'n't  quite  good  enough  for  him,  an' 
him  smellin'  stronger  'n  a  mud-turkle,  an'  no  more 
fit  to  swaller  'n  a  thorn  apple  bush !  Glumph !  I 
don't  believe  in  no  spike-backs  puttin'  on  sech 
airs." 

The  disparaging  remarks  were  not  unheard  by 
the  big-mouth,  but  he  only  stuck  out  his  under  jaw 
a  little  more  contemptuously,  and  set  his  dorsal 
fin  more  stiffly  as  he  swam  silently  past  the  group 
of  unfriendly  observers. 

"Hush  your  noise!"  the  old  pike  sharply  com- 
manded, though  not  one  of  the  company  was  mak- 

110 


Down  Among  the  Fishes. 

ing  the  slightest  sound.  uDo  ye  hear  that?  Well, 
that's  a  boat  a-comin',  an'  of  course  there's  men  in 
it,  an'  we'd  better  keep  shady." 

The  cautious  dip  of  oars,  the  crack  of  rowlocks 
and  the  recurrent  ripple  of  water  from  the  bow,  in 
response  to  the  slow,  regular  strokes,  could  now  be 
distinctly  heard,  and  now  the  boat's  bottom  could 
be  seen,  and  its  shadow  gliding  steadily  along  the 
silty  bed  of  the  creek.  The  patriarch  sculled  him- 
self backward  half  his  length  with  a  stroke  of  his 
pectoral  fins  and  all  his  companions,  save  one  pert 
young  fellow,  discreetly  followed  his  example, 
backing  into  the  marsh,  till  the  drooping  heads  of 
wild  rice,  the  blue  spikes  of  the  pickerel  weed  and 
the  angular  burs  of  sedges  jostled  each  other  and 
rustled  as  if  a  stray  catspaw  of  wind  was  snatching 
at  them  out  of  the  breathless  air. 

"What  be  you  afeared  of?  I'm  going  to  stay 
where  I  can  see,"  said  young  Malapert,  boldly 
holding  his  place  while  an  oar-blade  flashed  above 
him  and  launched  from  its  tip  a  miniature  whirl- 
pool that  bored  so  deep  that  the  point  of  its  hol- 
low core  tickled  his  back. 

"Mebbe  you'll  see  more  'n  you  want  to,"  the 
elder  admonished  him,  but  to  no  purpose. 

The  boat  passed,  and  its  wake  spent  its  last 
slow  pulse  among  the  rushes  before  a  glittering 


in 


Hunting   Without  a   Gun. 

spoon  appeared  thirty  yards  off,  drawn  by  a  line 
so  slender  that  it  was  invisible  at  a  little  distance. 
In  spite  of  the  sage  advice  they  had  so  lately 
listened  to,  some  of  the  older  fish  were  attracted  by 
the  shining  lure,  and  made  a  movement  toward 
it,  but  their  younger  relative  being  nearest,  fore- 
stalled them  by  a  swift,  sudden  dash  and  seized  it. 
His  jaws  closed  upon  it  savagely,  but  were  met  by 
something  as  hard  as  his  sharp  teeth,  and  that 
slipped  through  them  till  three  as  sharp  hooks 
were  firmly  planted  in  his  mouth. 

This  strange  thing,  which  was  neither  fish  nor 
frog,  yielded  so  readily  to  his  first  instinctive  burst 
of  flight  that  he  thought  for  a  moment  he  was  to 
bear  it  away  as  a  doubtful  trophy.  Then  began 
a  gradually  tightening  strain,  that  promptly 
stopped  his  retreat,  and  brought  him  so  nearly  to 
a  standstill  that  he  was  fain  to  try  another  course. 
He  dashed  to  the  right,  to  the  left,  downward  till 
he  struck  the  bottom,  upward  till  he  broke  the 
surface  into  an  upbursting  shower,  yet  in  no  direc- 
tion could  he  find  relief  from  the  steady,  wearying 
strain  that  never  yielded  enough  to  give  an  in- 
stant's rest,  never  resisted  enough  to  make  break- 
age possible. 

It  was  no  better  when  he  made  all  speed  in  the 
direction  of  the  pull,  the  incessant  strain  con- 

112 


Down  Among  the  Fishes. 

tinued  with  but  little  abatement,  while  he  came  so 
near  the  boat  that  he  saw  a  slender  rod  bending 
toward  him  like  a  bullrush  in  a  gale,  and  he  heard 
the  swift  clatter  of  a  reel  that  was  taking  in  the 
cobweb  line  faster  than  he  could  swim,  and  he 
saw  the  terrible  man,  gray-bearded  and  calm-faced, 
who  was  managing  all  the  deadly,  relentless 
machinery. 

Setting  every  fin,  he  checked  himself  so  sud- 
denly that  he  was  sure  something  must  break,  but 
the  rod  only  bent  a  little  more,  and  the  retarded 
line  spun  out  again  still  unbroken.  He  turned  and 
ran  straight  away,  then  to  right,  to  left,  again 
sounded  the  bottom,  and  again  broke  the  surface, 
but  nothing  availed  to  afford  release  nor  even  relief. 
Breath  and  strength  were  quite  spent,  and  his  com- 
rades saw  him  hauled  unresisting  alongside  the 
boat,  then  lifted  into  it,  and  a  moment  later  heard 
him  thrashing  the  bottom  in  his  death  struggle. 

"That  is  the  last  of  another  fool,"  declared  the 
old  pike  more  savagely  than  sadly.  "It's  a  lot  o' 
use  givin'  you  chaps  advice,  hain't  it?"  and  then 
added  more  regretfully,  "It  is  too  bad  to  have  a 
lusty  young  life  wasted  that  way.  I  wish  't  I'd 
swallered  him  two  year  ago." 

So  saying,  he  turned  and  swam  majestically 
away. 

113 


LANDLORD  DAYTON'S  SHOOTING 
MATCH. 


S  Phineas  Dayton  sat  in  his  neat 
bar  room  the  morning  before 
Christmas,  sixty  years  ago,  he 
was  an  ideal  landlord  to  look 
at;  portly  of  form,  genial 
eyed,  firm  mouthed.  Just  now 
the  bulky  figure  and  firm-set  lips  seemed  to  the 
young  fellow  who  sat  on  the  settle  opposite  the 
landlord's  arm  chair  to  quite  overbalance  all  the 
good  humor  that  the  eyes  expressed,  as  the 
younger  man,  evidently  awaiting  some  momentous 
answer,  lifted  frequent  furtive  glances  from  the 
hands  that  nervously  fingered  the  rifle  resting  be- 
tween his  knees. 

A  step  outside  attracted  the  landlord's  attention, 
and  looking  through  the  window  he  saw,  passing 
it,  another  young  man,  also  bearing  a  rifle. 

"Tom!  Tom!  come  in  here,"  Phineas  called 
peremptorily,  and  the  other  entered  with  a  puff  of 
wintry  air  that  set  the  advertisements  of  steam- 

114 


Landlord  Dayton's  Shooting  Match. 

boats,  stage  coaches  and  stallions  on  the  wall  to 
rustling  and  flapping. 

The  newcomer,  tall,  blue-eyed  and  yellow- 
haired,  bade  the  landlord  good  morning,  nodded 
to  the  other  and  looked  at  both  in  puzzled  inquiry. 
The  occupant  of  the  settle,  the  opposite  of  the 
other  in  stature  and  complexion,  returned  the  nod 
and  glance,  half-defiantly,  and  again  tried  to  read 
the  landlord's  face. 

"Tom,"  Landlord  Dayton  began  abruptly, 
uyou  an'  Dick  has  bin  a-hevin'  on't,  nip  an' tuck,  for 
my  Dorothy,  goin'  on  a  year.  Yest'd'y  you  ast  me 
for  her,  and  to-day  Dick  has.  You're  tol'able 
good  boys,  both  on  ye,  an'  one  is  about  as  well  off 
as  t'  other,  an'  I  hain't  a  ha'penny's  choice  betwixt 
ye.  I  don't  believe  Dorothy  hes,  nuther,  anyways 
I  hain't  seen  her  show  no  favor,  an'  mebbe  she 
won't  hev  nary  one.  She's  a  chip  o'  the  ol'  block, 
an'  some  sot,  but  mebby  my  say  so  'd  move  her  a 
leetle." 

The  young  men  blushed  hotly,  glaring  on  each 
other,  while  the  landlord  studied  their  faces  with  a 
twinkle  of  amusement  in  his  eyes,  and  then 
continued : 

"It's  nip  an'  tuck  wi'  ye,  tew,  on  your  shootin', 
both  on  ye  pooty  good  at  it,  but  nary  one  nuthin' 
tu  brag  on  over  t'  other.  Hain't  that  so?" 


Hunting   Without  a   Gun. 

Each  assented  hesitatingly,  wondering  what  pos- 
sible bearing  the  statement  would  have  on  the  de- 
cision of  his  fate. 

"Wai,  then,  I'll  tell  ye  what  I'm  a-goin'  tu  du, 
an'  give  ye  a  equal  chance.  You  both  on  ye  start 
aout  wP  your  rifles  at  10  er-clock,  percizely,  an' 
the  one  'at  comes  in  at  dark  wi'  the  biggest  string 
o'  pa'tridges  he'll  hev  my  consent  an'  what  help  I 
can  put  in  tu  git  Dorothy.  Naow,  what  d'  ye 
say?" 

uWhat  I  say  is,"  Tom  broke  out  hotly,  "what  I 
say  is,  I  don't  du  no  sech  a  thing!  You're  just 
a-jokin',  Mr.  Dayton,  a-gamblin'  off  your  darter 
on  a  feller's  luck  a-huntin' !" 

"Wai,  if  you're  afeard  tu  try  it,  I  hain't,"  Dick 
sneered. 

"You  ought  tu  know  it  hain't  that,  Dick  Bar- 
rett," said  Tom,  with  a  suppressed  danger  signal 
in  his  voice.  "It's  the  idee  'at  goes  ag'in  my 
grain.  But  you  hain't  in  airnest,  Mr.  Dayton,  I 
know  you  hain't!" 

"A-meanin'  every  word  I'm  sayin',"  the  landlord 
said,  shutting  his  mouth  like  a  steel  trap.  "You 
can  try  or  let  it  alone,  but  the  one  'at  fetches  the 
most  pa'tridges  gits  the  gal,  so  far  as  I  can  help 
him  tu  her." 

Tom  studied  the  determined  face  a  moment  be- 
116 


Landlord  Dayton's  Shooting  Match. 

fore  he  answered,  "I'll  be  in  ag'in  afore  10,  an' 
let  ye  know  whether  I  will  or  no,"  and  with  that 
went  out. 

"An  if  you'll  jest  set  my  shootin'  iron  inside 
your  bar,  so  't  the'  won't  be  nobody  foolin'  with  it, 
I'll  go  over  tu  the  store  an'  git  me  some  paowder, 
an'  I'll  be  on  hand,  tu  rights,"  said  Dick,  hand- 
ing his  rifle  to  the  landlord  and  hurrying  out. 

The  landlord  placed  it  inside  the  bar,  which  had 
a  wooden  grating  from  counter  to  ceiling,  and  then 
carefully  locking  the  door,  but  forgetting  to  take 
the  key  from  it,  went  away  with  a  ponderous  but 
brisk  step,  that  set  bottles  and  glasses  to  clinking 
merrily  behind  him. 

No  one  of  the  three  occupants  of  the  bar  room 
had  noticed  that  when  Tom  Hale  became  one  of 
them,  the  door  of  the  dining  room  was  drawn  the 
least  bit  ajar,  and  one  black  eye  of  the  landlord's 
niece  and  hired  girl,  Susan  Crane,  took  a  position 
in  it  to  feast  on  what  it  and  its  mate  loved  best — 
the  handsome,  devil-may-care  face  of  Dick  Bar- 
rett. Then  the  conversation  grew  interesting,  and 
she  put  the  best  of  her  little  pink  ears  to  gathering 
every  word  of  it,  and  when  it  was  ended  and  the 
bar  room  empty,  she  entered  it  on  tip  toe,  hover- 
ing about  the  now  accessible  bar  more  eagerly  than 
a  thirsty  toper,  with  the  strong  temptation  to  steal 

117 


Hunting   Without  a   Gun. 

the  gun,  and  quite  ready  to  make  it  useless  if  she 
only  knew  how.  Then  she  was  given  a  great  start 
by  the  sudden  entrance  of  some  one,  who  proved 
to  be  Billy  Cole,  the  lame  hostler,  who  hopelessly 
adored  her,  and  would  lay  down  his  life  for  one  of 
her  smiles. 

"Oh,  Billy !"  she  said,  rapidly,  in  a  stage  whis- 
per, "what  d'  you  du  tu  a  gun  so  it  won't  shoot 
good?  Quick,  tell  me!" 

"Du  tu  a  gun?"  he  repeated,  staring  at  her 
open-mouthed.  "Why,  you  can  bu'st  'em,  er  smash 
the  lock,  er  wet  the  primin',  or  if  it's  a  flint  lock, 
loose  the  flint." 

"No !  no !  not  to  spile  it  for  good  an'  all,  nor  so 
you  could  tell  right  off  what  ailded  it,  but  some- 
thin'  kinder  blind.  Oh,  tell  me,  Billy!" 

"Wai,  it  depends  so'thin'  on  what  kind  of  a  gun 
it  is,"  he  explained,  with  exasperating  deliberation. 

"Oh,  such  a  gun  as  Tom  Hale's  or — a — why, 
such  a  gun  as  this;"  she  opened  the  door  of  the  bar 
and  pointed  at  Dick's  rifle. 

"Why,  that  'ere  is  a  rifle;  it's  Tom's  or  is  ft 
Dick's — hain't  it  or  hain't  it?" 

"Yes,  yes;  but  haow  du  you  fix  it?"  she  said 
hurriedly. 

"Oh,  I'd  just  start  the  sight  a  leetle  grain,"  he 
answered,  with  longing  eyes  on  the  row  of  bottles. 

118 


Landlord  Dayton's  Shooting  Match. 

"Oh,  you  du  it,  Billy,  an'  I'll  du  anything  for 
you — quick!  I  want  tu  come  a  joke  on  him!" 

Her  eagerness  overcame  her  womanly  fear  of 
the  gun,  and  she  placed  it  in  his  hands;  then  lay- 
ing her  own  upon  the  bottle  of  Old  Jamaica, 
added,  uAn'  you  can  have  a  pull  at  this  'ere." 

Though  Billy  did  not  need  this  further  incite- 
ment to  do  her  bidding,  it  had  its  effect  in  hasten- 
ing his  movements,  and  taking  his  jack-knife  from 
his  pocket  he  knocked  the  back  sight  almost  im- 
perceptibly to  one  side.  Then  he  replaced  the 
rifle  and  took  a  generous  draught  from  the  bottle 
without  waiting  for  the  medium  of  a  glass.  Susan 
recorked  it,  and  was  returning  it  to  its  shelf  when 
he  arrested  her  with  an  outstretched  hand. 

"An*  naow,  jest  another  swaller,  Suky!  A  lit- 
tle hain't  much,  and  twice  hain't  often.  The  ol' 
man  is  pooty  savin'  o'  the  grog  he  gives  away." 

She  gave  him  the  bottle  again  with  some  misgiv- 
ings, not  lessened  as  the  upturned  bottle  arose  to 
a  sharper  slant  and  he  still  held  his  breath  in  the 
improvement  of  a  rare  opportunity.  It  was  cut 
short  by  the  sound  of  the  landlord's  footsteps 
pounding  an  adjacent  floor,  and  the  two  conspira- 
tors retreated,  Susan  to  the  kitchen,  Billy  to  the 
hearth,  where  he  was  ostentatiously  mending  the 
fire,  when  Phineas  Dayton  entered  the  room. 

119 


Hunting   Without  a   Gun. 

The  ordinary  balance  of  Billy's  body  on  its  one 
sound  leg  was  somewhat  disturbed  by  the  unusual 
weight  of  his  potations,  and  he  came  near  pitching 
headlong  on  to  the  blazing  back  log.  Then  in  the 
violent  struggle  to  recover  himself  he  overdid  the 
point,  and  sat  down  heavily  on  the  hearth. 

"What  the  devil  be  you  up  to  naow,  Billy 
Cole?"  the  landlord  demanded,  coming  to  a  sud- 
den halt  behind  him. 

"Up  to  nothin',  Phineas,"  Billy  answered 
huskily,  staring  owlishly  at  the  fire,  "settin*  daown 
I  be,  a-tryin'  for  tu  warm  my  feet." 

"Jes'  naow  it  was  your  head  you  was  tryin'  tu 
warm,  an'  come  mighty  nigh  it !  Why,  man  alive, 
you're  drunk!  An'  where  in  time  d'  ye  git  your 
liquor?  Ah,  I  see!"  as  his  eyes  slowly  ranged 
the  room  and  discovered  the  forgotten  key  in  the 
lock.  "Haow  dumb  careless  I  be!  Key  in  the 
bar,  hostler  in  the  fire,  an'  the  devil  to  pay 
gen'rally!  Say,  Billy  Cole,  the's  somebody 
a-comin',  an1  I  hain't  goin'  tu  hev  'em  see  you 
floppin'  'round  drunk  this  time  o'  the  mornin'. 
You  git  int'  your  bunk." 

With  that  he  threw  open  the  seat  of  the  settle, 
which  inclosed  the  hostler's  nightly  couch,  and  lift- 
ing him  from  the  floor,  dropped  him  therein  and 
shut  down  the  seat  in  spite  of  the  poor  fellow's 

120 


Landlord  Dayton's  Shooting  Match, 

feeble  resistance  and  more  vigorous  protests.  This 
was  but  just  done  when  Tom  and  Dick  returned, 
and  the  latter  was  given  his  rifle. 

"Coin'  tu  try  your  luck,  hain't  you,  Tom?" 
Phineas  asked,  cheerily. 

"Wai,  it's  mighty  mean  business,  Mr.  Dayton, 
but  I  be  a-goin'  tu,"  Tom  answered,  desperately, 
at  the  same  time  making  a  mental  reservation  that 
he  would  not  abide  by  the  terms  of  the  match  un- 
less it  resulted  in  his  favor,  which  was  hardly  fair, 
save  as  all  things  are  so  in  love  and  war. 

"Wai,  then,  it's  10  o'clock,  an'  time  you  tew  was 
off.  May  the  best  man  win,  but  haowever  it  turns 
aout,  we'll  hev  pa'tridges  for  aour  Chris'mas  din- 
ner, for  I  cal'late  you'll  both  on  you  du  your 
pootiest." 

With  this  Phineas  opened  the  door  and  the  pair 
went  forth,  each  betaking  himself  to  his  favorite 
hunting  ground,  and  inwardly  wishing  the  other 
the  worst  kind  of  luck.  As  he  watched  their  de- 
parture, the  landlord  chuckled  till  his  fat  sides 
shook,  and  he  said  to  himself:  "I'll  git  a  mess  o' 
pa'tridges  anyway,  an'  it  won't  make  no  odds." 
Then  he  took  Billy  from  the  box  and  with  a  sharp 
admonition  bundled  him  off  on  unequal,  devious 
legs  to  the  stable. 

Susan  ran  straight  to  her  cousin  with  the  fruits 

121 


Hunting  Without  a  Gun. 

of  her  eavesdropping,  but  prudently  withheld  her 
share  in  the  plot,  for  she  was  not  sure  which  suitor 
was  most  in  favor  with  Dorothy,  who  was  some- 
thing of  a  flirt. 

"Did  you  ever  hear  of  anybody  so  mean  as 
father?"  Dorothy  cried,  shedding  tears  of  shame 
and  vexation.  "A-settin'  up  his  own  flesh  and 
blood  to  be  shot  for,  like  a  hen-turkey !  If  he  don't 
care  no  more  'n  that  who  gits  me  I  won't  hev  no- 
body he  wants  me  tu — not  ary  one  of  'em — Dick 
Barrett  was  fast  enough  for  it,  was  he  ?  Well,  he 
won't  git  me  if  he  gits  a  back  load  o'  pa'tridges. 
I  can  tell  him  that !  An'  wa'n't  Tom  noble,  talkin' 
to  father  the  way  he  did !  It  ought  to  shamed  him. 
Don't  you  b'lieve  Tom  will  try?  Oh,  I  wish  he 
would  beat — only  I  wouldn't  hev  him — not  for 
that" 

"Oh,  I  guess  he  will,  an'  if  he  don't,  I  guess  it'll 
be  all  right,"  said  Susan,  delighted  to  find  how 
favorably  the  wind  blew.  Yet  she  must  put  in  a 
word  for  her  heart's  choice,  "But  I  tell  you  he'll 
hafter  be  smart  if  he  beats  Dick.  They  say  the' 
hain't  his  equal  nowhere  for  shootin'.  And  oh, 
if  he  hain't  han'some !  Be  you  goin'  tu  tell  your 
mother,  Dorothy?" 

"The  idee!    She'd  jest  hev  a  conniption." 

The  girls  interspersed  the  busy  preparations  for 

122 


Landlord  Dayton's  Shooting  Match. 

Christmas  with  frequent  whispered  colloquies, 
while  one  openly  wished  for  the  triumph  of  her 
lover,  the  other,  secretly,  for  the  defeat  of  her 
beloved. 

The  swinging  stride  of  Tom's  long  legs  and 
the  quicker  movements  of  Dick's  shorter  ones  car- 
ried the  young  men  at  a  lively  pace  over  the  light 
snow  that  covered  the  earth  and  still  lay  undis- 
turbed on  every  twig  and  branch,  where  it  had 
found  lodgment.  They  reached  their  hunting 
grounds  at  about  the  same  time.  Under  the  river- 
side hemlocks,  to  which  Dick  went,  the  white  car- 
pet of  the  woods  was  thickly  embroidered  with 
the  footprints  of  a  pack  of  ruffed  grouse,  and 
stealthy  stalking  soon  brought  him  to  a  fair  shot  of 
one  member,  making  itself  as  motionless  as  one  of 
the  knots  of  the  log  whereon  it  stood,  and  as  like 
them  as  one  to  another,  but  for  the  coping  of 
snow  they  bore.  The  immobility  and  the  likeness 
were  still  preserved  after  the  sharp  report  rang 
through  the  woods,  and  the  harmless  bullet  cast 
up  a  shower  of  snow  two  rods  beyond  the  head, 
which  was  its  mark.  But  at  the  motions  of  reload- 
ing the  bird  took  alarm  and  went  off  like  a  rocket, 
as  did  the  others,  after  being  successively  missed, 
and  then  the  remainder  of  the  pack  followed  far 
into  the  depths  of  the  woods.  Thoroughly  dis- 

123 


Hunting   Without   a   Gun. 

gusted  with  his  marksmanship,  but  still  hoping  to 
retrieve  it,  Dick  went  in  pursuit  of  them,  and  after 
long  and  careful  search  discovered  one  perched 
within  easy  range  on  a  branch  of  hemlock. 

He  rested  his  rifle  against  a  convenient  tree,  and 
aimed  with  most  deliberate  care,  but  the  shot  was 
as  unsuccessful  as  the  previous  ones.  The  next 
chance  he  determined  to  run  no  risk  of  losing  by 
a  shot  at  so  small  a  mark  as  the  head  or  neck,  and 
therefore  aimed  at  the  middle  of  the  breast,  which 
squarely  fronted  him.  The  bird  came  down  with 
a  gyrating  flutter,  and  when  Dick  picked  it  up  he 
found  that  the  ball  had  struck  the  butt  of  one 
wing,  a  hit  so  wide  of  his  careful  aim  that  he  at 
once  suspected  the  cause,  and  an  examination  of 
the  sight  verified  the  suspicion.  He  did  not  mis- 
trust that  any  one  had  tampered  with  his  gun,  and 
only  blamed  himself  for  not  sooner  discovering 
what  was  wrong  with  it.  Yet,  now  that  it  was  set 
right,  fortune  did  not  favor  him,  for  though  he 
soon  got  another  shot  and  neatly  decapitated  the 
bird,  the  sharpest  hunting  till  the  woods  grew  dark 
with  nightfall  failed  to  bring  him  another  chance. 
So  he  took  the  homeward  way  with  little  dis- 
position to  show  his  meager  spoils,  except  for  a 
faint  hope  that  fortune  might  have  been  as  un- 
friendly to  his  rival  as  to  himself. 

124 


Landlord  Dayton's  Shooting  Match. 

Tom  began  hunting  on  the  southward  slope  of 
a  hill  dotted  with  a  second  growth  of  white  birches 
and  low-branched  young  pines,  sheltered  from  the 
breath  of  northern  air  that  was  sharp  though 
barely  astir,  and  warmed  by  all  the  slanted  sun- 
beams of  the  winter  day.  Here  the  snow  was 
printed  with  numerous  dainty  tracks  of  grouse  that 
had  come  from  the  denser  woods  to  bask  in  the 
sunshine  in  the  lee  of  the  pines.  In  three  such 
sunny  nooks  Tom  bagged  as  many  birds. 

Then  at  least  a  dozen  took  alarm,  and  with  suc- 
cessive bursts  of  mimic  thunder  and  accompanying 
showers  of  snow  from  every  intervening  bough 
went  hurtling  into  the  cover  of  the  woods.  Torn 
skulked  after  them,  stealthy  and  silent  as  a  lynx, 
and  finding  some  aperch,  motionless  as  the 
branches  which  held  them,  his  bullets  gave  good 
accounts  of  all  so  found,  save  one. 

In  other  covers  he  found  a  few  more  scattered 
birds,  and  when  the  shadows  thickened  in  the 
woods  till  the  notch  of  the  rear  sight  was  blotted 
out  he  set  his  face  toward  home,  with  a  bunch  of 
nine  grouse  slung  over  his  shoulder.  Yet  this  com- 
forting burden  did  not  give  him  assurance  of  vic- 
tory, for  he  knew  that  he  had  a  doughty  competi- 
tor pitted  against  him,  and  had  heard  the  report  of 
Dick's  rifle  during  the  day  as  often  as  his  own. 

125 


Hunting   Without   a   Gun. 

Night  had  fallen  when  he  reached  the  tavern, 
which  was  aglow  with  firelight  and  candlelight,  a 
hospitable  beacon  to  neighbors  and  wayfarers. 
Some  of  these,  gossips  and  strangers,  were 
gathered  in  the  bar  room  when  he  entered  it,  after 
hanging  his  game  in  a  safe,  secret  place.  The 
landlord  leaned  against  the  bar,  awaiting  the  or- 
ders of  thirsty  guests,  and  Billy  Cole  sat  on  the 
bunk,  sadly  sober  now,  with  his  lantern  beside  him, 
in  sullen  readiness  to  answer  a  call  to  the  stable. 

"Hello,  Tom!"  Phineas  hailed  the  newcomer, 
noting  with  a  shade  of  disappointment  that  he 
carried  only  his  gun.  "Did  you  git  more  'n  you 
could  lug  hum?  An'  Dick,  he  hain't  come  in  yet. 
I  hope  ye  hain't  shot  him." 

Nevertheless  Dick  was  in  the  kitchen  at  that 
moment,  to  which  he  had  covertly  come,  hoping  to 
have  a  word  with  Dorothy,  but  fate  so  ordered 
that  Susan  was  first  to  meet  him  at  the  door. 

"Why,  Dick  Barrett,  is  them  all  you  got?"  she 
exclaimed  in  a  pitiful  voice  that  her  delighted  face 
belied  when  she  saw  his  paltry  trophies.  "Naow 
hain't  it  tew  bad!  An'  you've  be'n  a-huntin'  all 
day  an'  hain't  hed  a  single  maou'ful  to  eat.  Naow 
you  set  your  gun  in  the  corner — ugh !  I  wouldn't 
dast  tu  tech  it  for  all  the  world — an'  you  come 
right  int'  the  butt'ry  an'  git  you  a  bite.  Aunt 

126 


Landlord  Dayton's  Shooting  Match. 

Mahaly's  upstairs  a-helpin'  Dor'thy  prink — goin' 
tu  the  duin's  tu  the  meetin'  haouse  long  wi'  Tom 
Hale,  I  guess — it'll  take  her  V  her  mother  a  good 
haour  tu  fix  her  up.  There,  take  right  a  holt  an' 
help  yourself.  The'  hain't  much,  but  it'll  keep  you 
from  starvin'." 

He  was  hungry  and  grateful,  and  withal  Susan 
had  never  looked  so  pretty.  Out  of  gratitude  and 
admiration  a  new  flame  sprang  up  in  his  heart,  so 
fervent  that  before  his  supper  was  finished  he  was 
telling  his  love  to  a  new  sweetheart.  When  he  pre- 
sented himself  before  Phineas  Dayton,  half  an 
hour  later,  the  landlord  was  a  good  deal  surprised 
that  he  should  accept  defeat  with  such  equanimity, 
but  far  more  so  when  told  that  he  had  won  the 
niece  and  no  longer  desired  the  daughter. 

"Wai,  wal,  if  this  'ere  hain't  a  devil  of  a  haow- 
d'-ye-du,"  forcing  a  chop-fallen  smile,  while  the 
two  young  fellows  shook  hands  and  exchanged 
hearty  congratulations.  "It  'pears  as  if  I'd  sold  my 
birthright  o'  gals  for  a  mess  o'  pa'tridge !  I  wonder 
what  in  time  Mahaly'll  say?  Wal,  to-morrer 
we'll  feast  an'  be  merry,  an'  nex'  day  you'll  hitch 
the  gray  mare  on  t'  the  shay,  Billy  Cole,  an'  I'll  go 
a-huntin'  hired  gals.  Cuss  the  luck !  Come,  gen- 
tlemen, all  hands  walk  up  tu  the  bar  an'  take  a 
holt.  It's  my  treat." 

127 


HOW  ELIJAH  WAS  FED  AT  CHRISTMAS. 

|  AS  you  a-cal'latin'  for  to  go 
a-huntin'  to-morrer,  'Liger?" 
Aunt  Charity  asked,  looking 
under  the  rim  of  her  spectacles 
at  her  husband,  who  was  care- 
fully inspecting  his  rifle  by  the 
light  of  the  same  candle  whose  feeble  rays  illumined 
the  counting  of  her  stitches. 

"Wai,  no,  I  wa'n't,"  he  answered,  but  after  a 
brief  pause,  continued  in  a  tone  so  decided  he 
hoped  it  might  forestall  opposition : 

"I'm  a-goin'  to  the  turkey  shoot  an'  git  us  a 
turkey,  I  be." 

"Good  land!"  Aunt  Charity  exclaimed,  drop- 
ping hands  and  knitting  into  her  lap  and  staring 
at  the  bald  head  now  bent  more  intently  over  the 
gun.  "Where  be  you  goin'  to  git  the  money  for 
to  pay  your  shots?" 

"Oh,  I  got  a  half-dollar  I  be'n  a-savin'  up,"  he 
answered  quickly.  "But  I  s'pect  I'm  goin'  to 
plunk  a  turkey  the  secont  shot  anyway ;  th'  oP  iron 

128 


Elijah  Was  Fed  at  Christmas, 

throws  a  ball  as  true's  it  did  the  day  it  come  aout 
o'  Hill's  shop." 

His  wife  drew  a  needle  from  the  finished  row 
of  stitches  and  scratched  meditatively  bfeneath  her 
sheep's  head  cap  before  venturing  a  doubt.  "It's 
forty  year  older'n  it  was  then,  an'  so  be  you. 
'Liger.  I  don't  s'pose  your  hand's  quite  so  stiddy 
nor  your  eye  quite  so  clear.  Land  knows,  mine 
hain't."  She  sighed  gently  as  she  opened  and  shut 
a  knotted  and  stiffened  hand  before  her  dim  spec- 
tacled eyes. 

"Sho,  Cherry,  you're  spryer'n  half  the  gals,  an' 
I  can  read  fine  print  wi'  my  naked  eyes,  an'  my 
hand's  as  stiddy  as  a  rock."  He  drew  a  bead  on 
the  center  of  the  clock  face  and  held  the  long  bar- 
rel on  it  a  moment  without  a  perceptible  tremor, 
and  then  beamed  a  triumphant  smile  on  his  wife. 

uMebbe,  but  I'm  afeared  you're  jest  a-goin'  for 
to  heave  away  your  money.  You're  'Liger,  I 
know,  but  I'm  'feared  the'  hain't  no  ravens  a- 
comin'  to  feed  ye." 

"No,  but  a  turkey,  sure  as  guns.  An'  I'll  tell  ye 
what  we're  a-goin'  to  du,  then,  Cherry,"  he  con- 
tinued in  a  confidential  tone.  "When  I  git  him 
dressed  an'  you  git  him  stuffed  an'  int'  the  oven, 
I'm  a-goin'  to  take  the  wheelbarrer,  or  if  it  comes 

sleddin',   which  the'   hain't  no  prospec's  on,   the 

129 


Hunting   Without   a   Gun. 

hand  sled  an'  I'm  a-goin'  to  the  poorhaouse  an' 
borry  or  steal  poor  little  Lyd  Cole  an'  fetch  her 
up  here  to  eat  a  Christmas  dinner." 

He  shut  the  brass  lid  of  the  patch  box  with  a 
decisive  snap  and  bestowed  a  close-shut  but  benig- 
nant smile  upon  his  wife,  who  returned  it  in  softer 
kind  and  said  with  a  tremor  in  her  voice,  "Why, 
'Liger  Wait!  Is  that  what  you  be'n  a-plannin' 
for?  Wai,  then,  I  shouldn't  wonder  ef  you  did 
git  a  turkey,  an'  I  hope  to  goodness  you  will. 
Poor  oP  Lyddy,  I  don't  s'pose  she's  hed  a  mou'ful 
o'  Chris'mas  turkey  in  her  life.  Deary  me!  I'm 
'fraid  I  wa'n't  as  good  as  I'd  ort  to  be'n  to  the 
poor  humpbacked  little  critter  when  we  useter  go 
to  school.  But  you  al'ays  stood  up  for  her." 

"Not  none  too  good,  I  wa'n't,  an'  I  sh'ld  lufter 
make  up  for't  a  leetle  speck  by  a-givin'  on  her  one 
tol'able  decent  Christmas." 

"An'  I  du  b'lieve  we'll  be  favored  to,"  said 
Aunt  Charity.  "An  we've  got  onions  to  go  wi' 
the  turkey,  an'them  high  bush  cramb'ries  'at  you 
got  up  to  the  swamp'll  jest  come  in  complete." 

"Why,  Cherry,"  her  husband  laughed,  "next 
you'll  be  for  goin'  to  the  shootin'  match  yourself, 
which  in  the  beginnin'  you  wa'n't  a-going  to  let  me. 
Naow  I'll  run  me  a  han'ful  o'  balls,  an'  then  it'll 
be  time  to  go  to  bed." 

130 


How  Elijah  Was  Fed  at  Christmas. 

He  gave  the  long,  brown  barrel  and  the  curled 
maple  stock  another  caress  with  the  oiled  rag  be- 
fore he  hung  the  rifle  on  its  hooks,  while  Aunt 
Charity  mended  the  fire  and  raked  out  a  glowing 
bed  of  coals  ready  for  the  ladle.  She  drew  her 
chair  beside  the  stove  and  plied  her  needles  while 
she  watched  him  at  his  work. 

"My  land!"  she  cried,  as  the  shining  bullets 
were  rapped  from  the  mold,  "if  them  was  only 
the  silver  they  look  we  could  buy  us  a  turkey." 

"They'll  fetch  us  one  jest  the  same,"  he  said, 
confidently. 

"It'll  be  rough  wheelin'  for  Lyddy,"  Elijah  said 
to  himself,  looking  up  at  the  cloudless  sky  as  he 
trudged  along  the  frozen  road  the  next  day  after 
dinner  with  his  rifle  on  his  shoulder,  and  the  soli- 
tary half-dollar  clinking  against  the  jack-knife  in 
his  trousers  pocket.  "I'll  stop  an'  tell  her  to  be  all 
ready  ag'in  I  come  arter  her." 

He  turned  in  at  the  forlorn,  treeless  yard  of  the 
poorhouse.  He  entered  without  knocking  and 
went  straight  to  Lydia,  where  she  sat,  an  uncouth 
heap  of  deformity,  at  her  accustomed  window, 
watching  "the  Pass"  and  sewing  braided  rags. 
Her  face,  worn  by  heavy  pain  of  body  and  spirit, 
brightened  a  little  at  sight  of  her  old  friend,  and 
more  at  the  sound  of  his  cheery  voice. 


Hunting  Without  a  Gun. 

"Good  mornin',  Lyddy.  A-drivin'  your  needle 
to  beat  the  Dutch,  this  mornin',  hain't  ye?  My 
stars!"  as  she  smoothed  the  completed  center  of 
the  rug  over  her  knees,  "hain't  that  a-goin'  to  be  a 
neat  one!  Red  an'  yaller  an'  blue  an'  I  d'know 
what  all.  Say,"  lowering  his  voice,  "I'm  a-comin' 
to-morrer  mornin'  to  take  you  up  to  our  haouse  to 
Christmas."  Lyddy  looked  incredulous.  "Yes, 
sure  as  shootin'.  Cherry's  alottin'  on  it,  an'  I'm 
a-comin'  for  ye  with  a  one-wheeled  kerridge  an' 
there's  goin'  to  be  a  turkey.  I'm  goin'  arter  him 


naow." 


For  a  moment  the  stolid  hardness  of  her  face 
softened  almost  to  an  expression  of  happiness,  and 
then  grew  hard  as  she  glowered  furtively  over  her 
shoulder. 

"I  do'  know  if  they'll  let  me." 

"They  can't  help  it.  I'm  a-goin'  to  take  ye. 
Say,  Pratt,"  addressing  the  lessee  of  the  town 
farm,  who  was  passing  through  the  room,  "I'm 
a-goin'  to  hev  Lyddy  up  to  aour  hause  for 
Christmas." 

"All  right,"  the  man  answered,  with  a   harsh" 
laugh.     "You  can  have  her  for  keeps,  for  all  me. 
Goin'  to  the  shootin'  match,  be  you,  'Liger?" 

"Yes,  I  be,  Wai,  you  be  ready  by  nine  o'clock, 
Lyddy," 


How  Elijah  Was  Fed  at  Christmas. 

So  he  left  her,  happier  in  the  anticipation  of  a 
break  in  the  dreariness  of  her  life  than  she  had 
been  for  many  a  day. 

As  he  took  the  highway  again,  the  pop  of  a  rifle 
and  the  quick  echoes  bounding  from  adjacent  walls 
told  that  the  shooting  match  had  begun,  and  he 
hastened  his  steps.  Then  came  another  report, 
and  its  succession  of  echoes,  and  now  he  saw  the 
thin  wisp  of  smoke  drift  against  the  blue  sky  above 
the  roofs  and  dissolve  in  the  cold,  still  air. 

uPlague  on't!  They'll  hev  the  heft  on  'em  shot 
afore  I  git  there, "  Elijah  ejaculated,  and  verified 
the  adage  of  "More  haste,  less  speed,"  for  he 
caught  his  foot  in  a  rut  and  fell  headlong,  the 
shouldered  rifle  measuring  its  length  with  a  bang 
on  the  frozen  ground.  After  looking  around  to 
learn  if  there  were  any  spectators  of  his  fall,  his 
next  thought  was  for  his  gun,  which  he  rejoiced 
to  find  had  suffered  no  apparent  harm. 

He  reached  the  shooting  ground  in  the  rear  of 
the  tavern  barn  without  further  interruption,  and 
found  all  the  marksmen  of  the  township  gathered 
there,  himself  the  most  renowned  and  conse- 
quently least  welcome  of  the  company. 

"Wai,  Uncle  'Liger,  I  was  a-wishin'  you  an' 
that  reachin'  oP  iron  wouldn't  be  here  to-day," 
said  Taft,  the  tavern  keeper  and  owner  of  the 

133 


Hunting   Without   a   Gun. 

turkeys.     "But  I'll  tell  ye  aforehand,   if  ye  kill 
more'n  three  a  hand  runnin',  I  won't  let  ye  shoot 


no  more." 


"So  ye  needn't.  So  ye  needn't,  Ab'am,"  Elijah 
cheerfully  conceded.  "I  don't  want  on'y  one  o' 
your  turkeys.  Here's  your  ninepunce,  but  I'm 
a-goin'  to  wait  till  there's  a  good  un  sot  up." 

The  landlord  gave  him  the  change  from  a  grow- 
ing pocket  of  small  coin,  and  the  veteran  strolled 
from  group  to  group  of  the  onlookers,  here  chat- 
ting with  some  old  acquaintance,  there  curiously 
scanning  the  newfangled  weapon  of  a  younger 
contestant.  One  of  these,  a  dapper  young  farmer, 
too  foppishly  dressed  for  the  occasion,  swaggered 
forward  and  lay  down  on  the  slanted  plank,  rest- 
ing the  heavy  barrel  of  his  telescope-sighted  rifle 
across  the  raised  end  and  taking  aim  with  much 
fussy  preparation.  Then  his  confidence  deserted 
him,  he  dwelt  long  on  his  aim  and  the  muzzle 
gyrated  dubiously,  till  at  last  he  desperately  pulled 
the  trigger,  and  to  his  own  great  surprise  hap- 
pened to  hit  the  turkey,  whereat  he  bragged  tre- 
mendously, but  too  soon,  for  in  a  dozen  more  shots 
he  did  not  make  a  hit.  One  bashful,  ungainly 
young  fellow  with  a  new  rifle,  outwardly  as  unfin- 
ished as  himself,  got  three  turkeys  at  three  shots, 
and  was  then  barred  out  by  Taft,  who  protested, 

134 


How  Elijah  Was  Fed  at  Christmas. 

"By  gum,  I  won't  hev  my  stock  o'  turkeys  used  up 
for  twelve  an'  a  half  cents  apiece." 

After  several  small  victims  had  succumbed  to 
swift  or  tardy  fate,  a  big  gobbler  was  set  up  on  the 
box,  and  Uncle  'Liger  stepped  forth  to  make  his 
first  shot.  Scorning  what  he  called  the  ubooby 
rest,"  he  knelt  on  one  knee,  resting  his  elbow  on 
the  other,  and  slowly  raised  the  long  rifle  to  its  un- 
erring aim.  Forty  rods  away  on  the  level  meadow 
the  great  bird  looked  no  larger  than  a  chickadee, 
but  the  old  man  saw  the  polished  silver  sight  shin- 
ing fairly  against  the  black  side  at  the  proper  in- 
stant. Everyone  was  watching  intently,  expect- 
ing to  see  a  responsive  flutter  or  fall  of  the 
doomed  fowl,  but  it  remained  erect  and  motion- 
less, while  beyond  and  a  little  to  the  left  a  puff  of 
dun  grass  and  dirt  was  smitten  from  the  frozen 
ground. 

"Wall,  I'll  be  darned  if  Uncle  'Liger  hain't 
missed  him  clean!"  exclaimed  some  one  in  a  disap- 
pointed tone,  and  not  even  the  most  jealous  rival 
openly  derided  the  unsuccessful  shot, 

"One  miss  hain't  nothin',"  Uncle  'Liger  re- 
marked, quietly,  and  began  loading  with  great 
care,  after  handing  Taft  the  price  of  another  shot. 
"That  'ere's  the  turkey  I  want,  Ab'm,  an'  here's 
your  ninepunce." 

135 


Hunting   Without  a   Gun. 

But  his  second  shot  went  as  wide  of  the 
mark  as  the  first,  and  the  third  and  fourth  were 
as  unfortunate,  and,  alas !  his  money  was  all  gone, 
and  with  it  the  last  chance  of  providing 
for  to-morrow's  promised  feast — a  disappointment 
harder  to  bear  than  the  mortification  of  defeat. 

"Wai,  'Liger,"  said  an  old  comrade,  ume  an' 
you  has  got  to  give  up  an'  be  'has  beens.'  ' 

"The  ol'  Scratch  has  got  into  me  or  the  gun  or 
both  of  us.  I  tried  her  to  a  mark  yest'day  at  arm's 
length  an'  plunked  the  center  ev'ry  time." 

"Folks  an'  guns  will  wear  aout,"  said  the  other, 
smiling  incredulously. 

"I  noticed  you  held  her  stiddy  as  an  anvil,"  said 
the  blacksmith,  who  was  the  repairer  of  all  the 
guns  of.  the  township,  "an'  I'd  ruther  have  the  ol' 
gun  to-day  than  half  a  dozen  o'  these  new  fashion 
ones,  wi'  their'  gimcracks  an'  their  patent  loadin' 
muzzles  an'  peek  sights  an*  the  devil  knows  what 
all.  Le'  me  jest  look  at  her  a  minute." 

Taking  the  gun  he  examined  it  critically,  and 
presently  his  sharp  eye  detected  the  fault  that  he 
had  suspected. 

"Here's  where  ye  got  a  cold  shet,  Uncle 
'Liger,"  he  said,  laying  a  seared  forefinger  on  the 
back  sight.  "Yer  crotch  sight's  knocked  a  leetle 
hair  aout  o'  line." 

136 


How  Elijah  Was  Fed  at  Christmas. 

'Thunder  an'  guns!"  the  old  man  ejaculated. 
"That  come  o'  my  tumblin' — droppin'  of  her 
a-comin'  over  here,  an'  I  never  took  a  notice. 
What  a  tarnal  ol'  gump  I  be.  I'm  glad  it  wa'n't 
the  gun's  fault — not  rYly." 

"Ner  your  holdin'  nuther,"  said  the  blacksmith. 
"Taft  ort  giv'  ye  another  chance  for  nothin'.  Say, 
Abe,  Uncle  'Liger's  sight  got  discumboberlated 
was  what  ailed  his  shootin'.  You'll  let  him  hev 
another  shot,  free,  won't  ye,  now  I've  got  it 
straight  ag'in?" 

"No,  sirree,  not  by  a  jugful;  the'  don't  nob'dy 
git  no  free  shots  here,"  the  landlord  answered, 
gruffly. 

"Most  seems  's  'ough  you'd  ortu,  considerin'," 
the  blacksmith  urged,  coaxingly. 

"I  tell  ye,  I  won't.  It  hain't  my  business  to  sight 
folks'  rifles  for  'em." 

"He's  a  mean  skunk,  anyhaow,"  said  the  black- 
smith, turning  his  back  upon  the  churlish  fellow 
in  disgust.  "I  was  a-goin'  to  take  a  few  more 
shots  myself,  but  I  swear  I  won't,  naow.  He  don't 
git  no  more  o'  my  money.  I've  got  one  turkey 
an'  we're  abaout  even.  I  wish't  I  had  tew,  I'd 
give  ye  one,  Uncle  'Liger." 

"I  feel  some  as  you  dew  'baout  payin'  on  him 
any  more,"  the  old  man  said,  though  in  truth  his 

137 


Hunting  Without  a   Gun. 

scruples  on  that  score  were  not  so  great  as  his 
pride,  which  forbade  his  asking  the  loan  of  nine- 
pence.  uBut  I  du  want  a  turkey  tormentedly,  an' 
I  feel  it  in  my  bones  I  could  git  one  by  tryin'  ag'in. 
But  it's  a-gittin'  kinder  darkish  for  to  shoot  so 
fur." 

The  shadows  were  creeping  from  the  gray 
woodlands  far  across  the  tawny  fields,  yet  the 
shooting  still  continued  in  spite  of  the  waning 
light.  For  the  most  part  the  living  target  would 
maintain  its  upright  or  cowering  posture  as  the 
harmless  bullets  whistled  past  it,  but  now  and  then 
one  would  proclaim  a  palpable  hit  by  a  prodigious 
flutter  or  final  outstretch  of  lifeless  head  and 
wings.  Then  a  demand  was  made  that  the  dis- 
tance should  be  shortened  by  ten  rods,  to  which 
Taft  would  not  accede,  and  so  the  shooting  ended. 
The  landlord  then  announced  that  the  remaining 
turkeys  would  be  raffled  off  in  the  bar  room  in  the 
evening. 

Some  of  the  successful  shooters  stayed  to  take 
part  in  this  contest,  and  meanwhile  hung  their 
trophies  in  the  back  porch  of  the  tavern,  through 
which  Uncle  TJger  passed  to  take  his  way  home- 
ward across  the  fields.  As  his  eye  fell  upon  them, 
it  struck  him  that  it  would  be  very  easy  to  take 
one,  and  then  he  found  himself  sorely  tempted  to 

138 


How  Elijah  Was  Fed  at  Christmas. 

do  so.  But  he  went  resolutely  past  them  all.  Then 
with  the  memory  of  poor  Lydia's  face  lighted  with 
anticipation,  appealing  to  him,  he  returned  and 
went  slowly  along  the  line,  carefully  searching  for 
the  smallest  turkey  and  promising  to  take  no  other. 
He  found  it  and  was  lifting  it  from  its  nail  when 
he  heard  approaching  footsteps  and  voices  and 
skulked  quickly  behind  a  corner. 

"I  got  kinder  oneasy  abaout  my  turkey,  for  fear 
somebody'd  hook  it,"  said  one.  "Tain't  no  gre't 
of  a  fowl,  but  it's  a  turkey  all  the  same,  an'  the 
young  uns  is  'lottin'  on't  'cause  I  promised  I'd 
fetch  'em  one.  Here  it  is,  all  right.  Wai,  I  guess 
I'll  take  it  an'  clear  aout  to  make  sure  on't." 

When  the  sound  of  their  retreating  footsteps 
grew  faint  and  Elijah  returned  to  the  place,  the 
selected  turkey  was  gone.  "Well,  there,  'Liger 
Wait,  if  you  hain't  come  pooty  nigh  makin'  a 
scamp  o'  yourself,"  he  said,  catching  his  breath  in 
a  gasping  whisper,  now  hot  with  shame,  now  cold 
with  fear  of  himself.  "Git  aout  o'  this,  you 
cussed  ol'  fool,  afore  you  disgrace  your  name  an' 
breed  wus'n  missin'  ev'rything  you  ever  shoot  at." 

He  made  haste  to  leave  the  scene  of  his  tempta- 
tion, but  it  was  not  far  behind  him  when  he  began 
to  make  excuses  for  his  weakness. 

"It  wan't  for  me  'at  I  wanted  the  dumbed  tur- 
139 


Hunting  Without  a   Gun. 

key,  nor  yet  for  Cherry,  though  she'd  be  awful 
disappointed  on  Lyddy's  .'caount.  It  was  jest  for 
that  poor  oP  critter  'at  never  hes  no  good  times  ner 
nothin'.  Haow  sh'd  I  know  'baout  Gibson's  young 
ones?  Lord,  that  would  ha'  be'n  tew  bad,  an' 
them  settin'  as  much  on't  as  Lyddy,  mebbe. 
What'll  I  du?  Go  that  way  an'  tell  her  'at  the' 
won't  be  no  Chris'mus  for  her?  Good  land!  I 
can't  and  won't.  I'll  kill  the  oP  ruster.  He's 
bigger'n  a  young  turkey.  He's  tougher'n  I  be,  but 
I'll  set  up  an'  bile  him  all  night,  an'  she  won't 
know  the  di fence  when  he's  stuffed  an'  roasted. 
Cherry'll  hate  to  hev  him  killed,  bein'  one  o'  the 
family  so  long,  but  she  can't  help  it  when  he's 
dead.  I'll  jest  load  up  the  oP  weepon  an'  git  him 
ag'in  the  moon  on  his  roost  in  the  oP  apple  tree." 

He  dropped  the  peaked  heel  plate  upon  the  toe 
of  his  boot,  carefully  measured  a  charge  from  his 
powder  horn  in  the  horn  charger,  as  carefully 
poured  it  into  the  muzzle,  whereon  he  nicely  ad- 
justed a  patch  and  bullet  and  drove  them  smoothly 
home,  then  slid  the  rod  into  its  brass  pipes  and  the 
long  groove  of  the  full  stock,  and  throwing  the 
rifle  in  the  hollow  of  his  arm,  pushed  the  cap  upon 
the  nipple,  every  motion  grotesquely  imitated  by 
his  elongated  shadow  on  the  moonlit  turf. 

He  remarked  the  stillness  of  the  chilly  air.  One 
140 


How  Elijah  Was  Fed  at  Christmas. 

cheek  was  no  colder  than  the  other.  His  jetting 
breath  arose  straight  before  him.  The  vapor  ris- 
ing from  the  lake  stood  upon  it  like  thin  columns 
supporting  the  canopy  of  cloud  it  was  slowly  form- 
ing. It  was  so  quiet  that  he  raised  the  lappet  from 
his  best  ear  and  listened  intently,  wondering  if 
there  was  no  sound  adrift  upon  the  night.  He 
caught  one,  faint  and  clear,  like  a  far-off  bugle 
note  or  baying  of  a  hound,  yet  neither,  suspected, 
but  not  quite  identified,  until  a  moment  later  it 
came  with  a  louder  clamor. 

"Geese,  by  gum!  A-comin'  this  way.  Oh,  if 
they  only  would,  an'  fly  low." 

He  stepped  to  the  cover  of  a  bushy  thorn  tree 
and  crouched  behind  it,  peering  out  sharply. 
Presently  the  V-shaped  squadron  became  dimly  de- 
fined, wedging  its  swift  way  across  the  blurred 
depths  of  sky,  now  plowing  under  for  a  moment 
a  twinkling  star,  now  letting  it  flash  forth  again, 
and  all  the  while  growing  into  a  more  distinct  and 
darker  line  against  the  blue.  Now  the  forked 
shadow  slid  past  along  the  ground,  and  now  the 
flock  was  straight  above  him,  each  individual  out- 
lined against  the  sky. 

"They're  higher'n  Gilderoy's  kite,"  he  said, 
bringing  the  rifle  to  his  shoulder  and  bending  back- 
ward,  "but  I'll  give  'em  a  partin'  salute." 

141 


Hunting   Without  a   Gun. 

The  moonlight  glinted  on  the  silver  sight  and 
he  saw  it  through  the  notch  of  the  rear  sight  well 
forward  of  one  of  the  flankers  as  he  pulled  the 
trigger.  The  sharp  report  was  answered  by  a 
blare  of  aerial  trumpets  as  the  slowly  rising  puff 
of  white  smoke  veiled  the  fast  receding  flock  of 
geese,  and  when  it  lifted,  all  had  vanished. 

Aunt  Charity  sat  by  the  fireside  knitting  and 
occasionally  looking  at  the  clock  and  wondering 
what  could  keep  Elijah  so  long  after  it  was  too 
dark  for  shooting. 

"He  hain't  got  no  turkey,  I  know  he  hain't,  or 
he'd  ha'  b'en  hum."  Her  lips  moved  to  her 
thoughts,  but  with  no  sound.  "I  told  him  he 
wouldn't,  at  fust,  I  did.  Wai,  we'll  hefto  give  up 
a-hevin'  Lyddy,  an'  I  didn't  sense  afore  haow  I 
was  alottin'  on  it  jest  for  her  sake,  poor  critter. 
Ah,  well,"  she  sighed  heavily,  and  the  sound 
breaking  in  upon  the  monotonous  treble  of  the  tea 
kettle,  the  droning  bass  of  the  stove  draft  the  tick 
of  the  clock  and  click  of  her  needles,  she  became 
aware  how  still  it  was — still  in  the  house,  yet 
stiller  out  of  doors,  from  whence  came  no  sound 
whatsoever.  She  listened  for  Elijah's  step  crunch- 
ing the  frozen  ground. 

Suddenly  somewhere  from  the  silence  burst  the 
clear,  sharp  crack  of  a  rifle,  not  near  enough  to 

142 


How  Elijah  Was  Fed  at  Christmas. 

startle  her  by  its  suddenness,  only  setting  her  to 
wondering  at  its  untimeliness.  Then,  while  she 
listened  in  the  succeeding  silence,  it  was  broken  as 
suddenly  by  a  tremendous  crashing  fall  of  some 
heavy  but  not  solid  body  on  the  roof.  Roof 
boards  and  shingles  cracked  beneath  its  weight, 
yet  it  gave  back  a  softened  thud  of  rebound  and 
then  writh  regular  muffled  strokes  slid  down  the 
steep  incline  of  crackling  shingles  till  it  fell  with 
another  thud  upon  the  broad,  wooden  doorstep. 
At  the  same  instant  a  strange  wild  fleeting  clamor 
seemed  to  fill  the  air,  swelling  and  dying  in  brief 
passage.  These  startling  sounds  gave  Aunt 
Charity  a  great  shock,  but  not  great  enough  to 
long  overcome  her  curiosity.  Bearing  a  candle  in 
one  trembling  hand,  with  the  other  she  cautiously 
opened  the  door  and  saw  some  sort  of  a  large  fowl 
lying  in  a  collapsed  heap  upon  the  step.  She  stooped 
for  closer  inspection,  lifting  with  timid  fingers  the 
broad-billed  head  and  feather-clad  neck.  As  she 
did  so,  she  caught  a  glimpse  of  Elijah  standing  a 
little  distance  down  the  path.  His  rifle  was  at  a 
ready,  for  he  was  maneuvering  to  get  the  ancient 
rooster  between  himself  and  the  moon,  when  Aunt 
Charity  made  her  inopportune  appearance. 

"Why,  'Liger,  why  did  ye  want  to  heave  it  onto 
the  ruff  an'  scare  me  half  to  death?     Tain't  no 

143 


Hunting   Without   a   Gun. 

turkey.  What  on  airth  is  it?  Never  seen  nothin' 
like  it  afore." 

He  drew  near,  as  much  puzzled  for  a  moment 
as  she. 

"Wai,  I  swan,1'  he  broke  forth,  exultantly,  as 
he  realized  his  luck,  "I  did  git  one  arter  all.  It's 
a  wil'  goose,  Cherry,  an'  I  bet  there  won't  be  an- 
other roasted  in  the  hull  taown  to-morrer.  We'll 
feed  Lyddy  like  the  Queen  o'  Sheby." 


144 


UNCLE   GID'S   CHRISTMAS   TREE. 
I. 

AL,  I  do'  know  what  to  du." 
The  words  came  up  in  a  long 
sigh  from  the  depths  of  Aunt 
Pamela  Corbin's  portly  bosom 
as  she  stood  with  both  hands 
dropped  helplessly,  one  hold- 
ing an  open  letter,  the  other,  the  spectacles  which 
had  aided  its  slow  reading.  uChristmas  a-comin' 
tu-morrer,  an'  Nancy  an'  her  man  a-comin'  tu 
spend  it,  an'  nothin'  pervided!  Wai,  I  say  for  it!" 
She  looked  down  at  Gideon,  tilted  forward  on 
the  front  legs  of  his  chair,  and  poking  meditatively 
among  the  ashes  on  the  stove  hearth  with  the  stick 
used  in  the  last  lighting  of  his  pipe. 

uWhy  don't  ye  say  suthin',  father?"  she  de- 
manded, after  a  moment  of  waiting. 

"Why,  I  hain't  nothin'  to  say  no  more'n  the  boy 
had  when  his  father  died,"  Uncle  Gid  responded, 
and  then  reconsidering  this  avowal,  uwhy,  yes,  I 
hev,  tew,  for  I  be  glad  Nancy's  a-comin',  an'  she'll 
be  glad  tu  see  her  father  'n'  mother,  if  she  doos 
hafter  go  it  on  pork  an'  beans,  which  I  don't  see 

145 


Hunting   Without   a   Gun. 

there's  nothin'  for  it  but  for  her  tu,  an'  I  guess  her 
man  can  stan'  it.  Nathan's  hearty  t'  eat,  and  the 
baby's  so  young  an'  leetle  it  won't  make  no  diff'ence 
to  him." 

"Why,  Gideon  Corbin,  what  be  you  a-thinkin' 
on?"  cried  Aunt  Pamela.  uThat  child  was  three 
year  ol'  the  tenth  day  o'  November.  A-goin'  on 
four  year  ol',  an  jus'  the  age  fer  candy  an  sech,  an' 
we  not  so  much  as  a  spoo'f'l  o'  honey  in  the 
haouse !  I  do'  know  but  what  I  feel  the  wust 
abaout  that  of  anything.  Oh,  my,  if  men  folkes 
hain't  enough  tu  kill !" 

"If  you  hedn't  a-hed  sech  all-killin'  luck  a-raisin' 
chickens,"  he  suggested,  ubut  the'  hain't  a  one.  If 
the  ol'  ruster  'd  du,  I'd  chance  it  on  pickin'  up  one 
some'ers  afore  spring,  but  he's  poorer  'n  a  skate; 
might's  well  try  t'  eat  a  tailor's  goose!  An  ev'y- 
b'dy  sol'  the  last  turkey  'at  they  hain't  kep'  for 
the'selves.  Gosh,  I  do'  know!  I  guess  it's  pork 
an'  beans,  Milly." 

"If  we'd  only  killed  the  hawg  last  week  as  we 
cal'lated  tu,"  Aunt  Milly  lamented,  "the'd  ha' 
been  spare-rib,  an'  if  it  wa'nt  for  the  name  on't  I'd 
just  as  lives  hev  it  as  turkey." 

"Livser!"  Uncle  Gid  warmly  seconded  her 
favorable  opinion  of  spare-rib,  "'cause  you  c'n  du 
most  o'  the  carvin'  aforehand  wi'  an  ax.  Gosh! 

146 


Uncle  Gid's  Christmas  Tree. 

I  druther  be  shot  than  tu  carve  a  turkey  afore 
folks!  Yes,  sir,  my  own  folks!  If  I  hed  it  my 
way,  Fd  hev  turkeys  'nough  so  't  each  pusson  'd 
hev  one  tu  hisself,  an'  if  he  wanted  any  wings  or 
laigs,  or  close-hugs  or  pope's-noses,  he'd  hafter  git 
'em  for  hisself." 

"Wai,  Fd  be  thankful  enough  if  we  hed  one 
for  all  on  us !"  Aunt  Milly  sighed.  uBut,  my  land, 
it  don't  signify !  I  must  be  a-doin'  wi'  what  the'  is 
tu  du  with,  for  here  'tis  ten  o'clock.  Thank  good- 
ness, the's  ten  good  punkins  left,  an'  Fll  make 
some  punkin  pies,"  and  she  began  to  stir  herself 
ponderously. 

uAn'  Fll  jist  make  some  'lasses  candy  for  that 
boy,  an'  I  guess,  bile  him  up  some  sweet  flag  in 
'lasses  if  it  hain't  got  tew  dry." 

Whereat  she  moved  briskly  about  the  kitchen, 
while  the  stove  with  its  clattering  doors  and  danc- 
ing griddles,  and  the  table  with  its  falling  leaf 
beating  a  tattoo  against  its  legs,  seemed  to  join  in 
her  activity.  The  general  commotion  aroused 
Uncle  Gid  from  his  apathetic  attitude.  Arising, 
he  unfolded  his  tall,  bent  form  to  more  than  its 
accustomed  height,  and  fixed  his  gaze  contempla- 
tively upon  the  long  rifle,  which  hung  in  its  wooden 
hooks  over  the  door. 

"Wai,"  he  said,  after  a  little  deliberation,  "I 
147 


Hunting  Without  a   Gun. 

kinder  guess  I'll  take  a  rantomscoot  an'  see  'f  I 
can  ketch  a  pa'tridge.  Don't  s'pose  the'  is  one, 
since  them  shoats  from  Higginston  ranshacked  the 
hull  universal  woods  wi'  the'  cussed  yollopin' 
spani'ls.  It  was  yip!  yopaty,  yip!  slam!  bang! 
whang!  day  in  an'  day  aout  for  a  week  till  what 
pa'tridges  wan't  killed,  was  skairt  tu  death.  By 
gum,  I  wish't  the  last  identical  spani'l  wus — wal, 
no,  I  do'  know  as  shot,  ezackly,  'cause  they  hain't 
tu  blame  for  bein'  borned  spani'ls,  but  I  wish't 
they  was  turned  intu  'spectable  haoun'  dawgs  like 
my  oP  Gab'el.  If  Gab'el  wakes  up  arter  I  git 
away,  don't  ye  tell  him  I've  gone  a-huntin',  'cause 
it'll  most  break  his  heart  tu  be  left  ahind,  an'  I 
don't  scasely  want  him  a-pa'tridge  huntin'." 

The  old  hound,  almost  hidden  beneath  the 
stove,  signified  recognition  of  his  name  with  lan- 
guid beats  of  his  tail  on  the  floor. 

"Consarn  it,  he's  heard  me  talkin'  on  't,  an' 
nothin'll  du  naow  but  he  must  go,"  said  Uncle 
Gid,  with  some  show  of  mild  vexation. 

"Wal,  mebbe  I  c'n  ketch  a  pa'tridge  or  tew,  an' 
they'll  look  more  Christmassy  on  the  table  'an  pork 
and  beans." 

Whatever  of  fin,  fur  or  feather  was  overtaken 
by  Uncle  Gid's  bullets  he  called  "ketched"  just  as 
if  it  had  been  taken  by  hook,  trap  or  net, 

148 


Uncle  Gid!  s  Christmas  Tree. 

Gabriel's  tail  continued  its  languid  beat  while 
his  master  took  down  the  rifle,  opened  the  patch 
box  in  the  stock  and  examined  its  contents, 
pocketed  a  handful  of  bullets  from  the  clock  shelf, 
shook  the  paper  box  of  caps  close  to  his  ear  and  put 
it  in  his  vest  pocket,  held  up  the  small  powder 
horn  between  his  eye  and  the  window  before  slip- 
ping  it  into  his  breast  pocket,  then  drew  the  clean- 
ing rod  and  its  patch  out  of  the  long  barrel  with  a 
critical  ear  and  touch  to  its  smooth  progress,  all  so 
quietly  that  the  strokes  of  the  old  hound's  tail  were 
not  accelerated.  But  when  Gideon  remarked  to 
himself  under  his  breath  that  "the  oP  churn  was 
all  right,"  and  began  tiptoeing  cautiously  toward 
the  door,  Gabriel  came  scrambling  backward  out 
of  his  warm  berth  with  a  prodigious  scratching 
and  clattering  of  toe  nails  in  a  state  of  joyous  ex- 
citement, to  which  he  gave  vent  in  awkward,  stiff- 
jointed  gambols  and  suppressed  yelps.  When  out 
of  doors  and  assured  of  his  master's  intended 
course,  he  at  once  subsided  to  a  sobriety  befitting 
his  years,  and  jogged  on  toward  the  woods  with  a 
staid  and  business-like  pace,  now  and  then  waiting 
for  Gideon,  and  looking  up  into  his  face  to  catch 
his  meaning  when  he  said — 

"Naow,  Gab'el,  you  hain't  sech  a  fool,  be  ye,  as 
tu  cal'late  you're  goin'  tu  find  anything  you  want 

149 


Hunting  Without  a   Gun. 

this  time  o'  day.  The'  hain't  been  a  fox  stirrin' 
these  tew  hours,  an'  rabbits  you  do'  want,  an'  the' 
hain't  been  a  lcoon  aout  door  for  a  fortni't,  I  know. 
It's  a  pa'tridge  I'm  arter,  an'  you  won't  hunt 
them."  Or  when  Gabriel  sniffed  at  a  fox  track  im- 
printed on  the  snow  when  the  latest  stars  were  shin- 
ing or  longer  ago — "Naow,  dawg,  you  don't  want 
tu  be  a-foolin'  with  that.  It  hain't  got  no  more 
scent  than  moonshine." 

The  hound  disappeared  in  the  border  of  the 
woods,  beyond  the  scope  of  conversation,  taking  a 
wide  circuit,  in  which  he  could  sometimes  be  heard 
thrashing  the  underbrush  with  his  tail,  or  snapping 
a  dry  twig  under  foot,  or  sounding  an  irrepressible 
trumpet  blast  when  the  hot  scent  of  a  fresh  squirrel 
track  suddenly  tickled  his  nostrils.  Then  he  would 
return  for  a  brief  interview  with  his  master,  who 
was  in  more  silent  quest  of  game. 

Now,  to  his  intense  disgust,  a  company  of  jays 
vociferously  heralded  Gideon's  cautious  progress; 
now  a  saucy  red  squirrel  jeered  at  him  with  great 
volubility  from  various  points  of  observation,  and 
now  he  saw  a  bevy  of  chickadees  flitting  above  a 
prostrate  trunk  with  greater  interest  in  some  object 
just  beneath  them  than  in  him.  Several  knots 
bristled  from  the  log  at  various  angles.  One  on 
top,  as  motionless  and  apparently  as  rigid  as  the 

150 


Uncle  Gid's  Christmas  Tree. 

others,  seemed  to  attract  Uncle  Gid's  attention,  for 
he  scrutinized  it  intently  till  at  last  the  rifle  arose 
slowly  to  his  shoulder,  then  became  motionless  for 
an  instant,  then  spat  out  a  thin  streak  of  fire  with  a 
spiteful  crack,  and  the  knot  tumbled  off  the  log  in 
a  sudden  but  brief  and  final  spasm  of  animation. 

Gabriel  came  in  at  the  shot  in  a  state  of  excite- 
ment which  subsided  in  a  contemptuous  sniff  at  the 
meager  result,  and  afterwards  kept  near  his  master 
as  if  to  prevent  his  committing  any  further  folly. 
Uncle  Gid  pocketed  the  headless  partridge  and  re- 
sumed his  cautious  quest,  though  not  a  little  an- 
noyed by  Gabriel's  persistent  attendance.  This 
became  more  annoying  when  the  tracks  of  three 
partridges  were  found  freshly  imprinting  the  snowT 
where  the  birds  had  wandered  deviously,  but  still 
in  company,  from  thicket  to  thicket,  and  likely  to 
be  so  come  upon  in  the  next,  if  the  dog  did  not  flush 
them.  He  seemed  perversely  bent  on  accomplish- 
ing this,  for  he  nosed  along  the  wandering  trails  in 
advance  of  his  master,  whose  low-toned  but  em- 
phatic commands  were  as  unheeded  as  unheard. 

'There,  you  'tarnal  ol'  fool-head,  you've  done 
it,  hain't  ye!"  the  old  man's  suppressed  vexation 
broke  forth  aloud,  when  Gabriel  threshed  his  way 
into  the  dead,  dry  underbranches  of  a  copse  of 
young  pines,  and  in  the  same  instant  the  three  par- 


Hunting   Without   a   Gun. 

tridges  burst  up  through  the  green  tops  like  as 
many  rockets  simultaneously  discharged. 

"Oh,  if  I  don't  give  ye  a  whalin'  when  I  git 
a-holt  on  ye !"  It  is  doubtful  whether  Uncle  Gid's 
wrath  would  have  endured  to  the  fulfillment  of  the 
threat,  even  if  the  hound  in  his  surprise  had  not 
uttered  a  loud,  sonorous  challenge;  and,  as  if  in 
obedience  to  it,  the  birds  scaled  upward  in  a  steep 
incline,  and,  to  the  old  hunter's  great  joy,  alighted 
on  the  branches  of  a  huge  maple.  Two  were  in 
sight,  craning  their  necks  to  watch  the  movements 
of  the  dog,  and  Uncle  Gid  drew  a  bead  full  on  the 
breast  of  the  lower  one,  too  anxious  to  secure  the 
bird  to  risk  a  shot  at  the  jerking  head.  In  response 
to  the  imperative  crack  of  the  rifle  the  bird  dropped 
like  a  plummet,  and  expired  in  a  miniature  snow 
flurry  of  its  own  creation,  which  had  scarcely 
ceased  when  the  patched  bullet  was  driven  down 
upon  the  measured  charge  of  powder,  the  cap 
pressed  upon  the  nipple,  and  the  rifle  ready  for  an- 
other execution.  At  its  spiteful  crack  the  second 
partridge  tumbled  from  its  loftier  perch,  crashing 
through  the  branches  below  it,  and  scaring  from 
among  them  the  unseen  third  member  of  the  trio, 
which  dashed  away  into  distance  and  safety. 

Gabriel  abandoned  the  exploration  of  the  thicket 
to  ascertain  the  cause  of  so  much  firing,  but  the  two 

152 


Uncle  Gid's  Christmas  Tree. 

dead  birds  did  not  seem  to  account  for  it  satisfac- 
torily. He  searched  the  ground  about  them,  then 
sniffed  at  the  boll  of  the  maple,  at  first  casually, 
then  more  carefully,  then  eagerly  and  standing  on 
his  hind  legs,  and  sniffing  at  the  trunk  as  high  as  he 
could  reach,  he  mingled  quavering  sobs  of  inhala- 
tion with  a  broken  whine  which  finally  burst  forth 
in  a  prolonged  trumpet  blast. 

"Sho,  Gab'el!  You're  a-foolin'  or  bein'  fooled," 
said  Uncle  Gid  as  he  pocketed  his  game  and  care- 
lessly observed  his  companion  with  an  amused 
smile.  "The'  hain't  nothin'  up  the  tree  naow." 
But  Gabriel  insisted  to  the  contrary  till  his  master 
came  to  him  and  examined  the  rough  bark  and 
found  it  scored  with  fresh  claw  marks.  There  were 
also  a  few  long  black  and  white  hairs,  with  shorter 
ones  of  a  neutral  tint  and  finer  texture,  caught  in 
clefts  of  the  bark,  and  after  a  minute  studying  of 
these  signs  Uncle  Gid  openly  admitted : 

"Wai,  I  say  for  't,  I  do'  know  but  what  you  be 
right,  arter  all.  Yes,  sir,  I  guess  the'  is  a  coon  or 
coons  in  't!"  and  when,  backing  slowly  away  from 
the  trunk  with  his  steadfast  gaze  as  slowly  climb- 
ing it,  he  discovered  a  hole  just  beneath  one  of  the 
lower  branches,  the  guess  grew  to  a  conviction. 
"Yes,  sir,  they  come  in  ^fore  it  snowed,  an'  I'll  go 
right  home  an'  git  an  ax,"  and  he  set  forth  at  once, 

153 


Hunting  Without   a   Gun. 

while  Gabriel  maintained  guard,  assured  of  his 
master's  return  by  the  rifle  left  leaning  against  a 
tree.  Half  an  hour  later  the  woods  resounded 
with  the  strokes  of  Uncle  Gid's  ax  regularly  de- 
livered on  the  trunk  of  the  hollow-hearted  maple 
till  it  tottered  and  went  down  with  a  sweeping  rush 
and  crash  of  branches  and  a  far-echoing  boom. 

A  bewildered  'coon  came  scrambling  out  of  the 
hole,  closely  followed  by  another,  both  met  so 
quickly  by  Uncle  Gid  that  the  stunning  blows  of  his 
ax  fell  upon  their  heads  before  they  realized  the 
cause  of  their  rude  awakening.  The  hound  gave 
each  limp  body  a  shake,  then  thrust  his  muzzle 
into  the  hole  and  sniffed  the  interior  with  long- 
drawn  inhalations,  while  Uncle  Gid  chopped  into 
the  hollow  in  several  places  to  assure  himself  that 
it  harbored  no  more  of  the  family;  and  then,  his 
curiosity  somehow  attracted  thither,  he  drove  the 
butt  of  the  ax  into  the  trunk  at  some  distance 
above  the  doorway  of  the  'coons'  chamber. 

"No,  the'  hain't  nothin'  more  in  't,  Gab'el,  but 
tew  'coons  hain't  to  be  sneezed  at,  an'  that  'ere 
youngest  one'll  help  aout  your  Aunt  Milly's  Christ- 
mas 'mazin'ly.  What — in — tunket !"  he  exclaimed 
in  great  surprise  as  he  carelessly  loosened  a  chip 
and  a  few  torpid  bees  fell  with  it  on  the  snow. 
"Honey,  by  hokey!"  he  cried  out  exultantly  when 

154 


Uncle  Gid's  Christmas  Tree. 

with  a  few  more  strokes  he  cleft  out  a  longer  chip 
and  disclosed  great  longitudinal  slabs  of  comb, 
some  turned  to  the  color  of  old  gold  with  years  of 
hoarding,  some  as  bright  as  the  virgin  nuggets  of 
Klondike.  The  discovery  of  this  most  unexpected 
treasure  took  away  the  old  man's  breath,  and  with 
it  the  power  to  give  audible  expression  to  his  sur- 
prise and  delight,  though  his  face  was  first  blank 
with  one  emotion,  then  broadly  illuminated  with 
the  other.  His  form  crooked  into  an  interrogation 
mark,  then  straightened  to  one  of  unworded  excla- 
mation, until,  with  his  breath  regained  in  a  long  in- 
halation, he  burst  forth  with  slow  vehemence : 

"Wai,  by  gum,  Gab'el,  if  this  'ere  hain't  a  Christ- 
mas tree !  Tew  pa'tridges,  tew  'coons,  an'  gobs 
an'  gobs  o'  honey.  Who  ever  see  the  beat  o'  that 
tu  one  haul !  Whoop  !  hooray  for  us,  Gab'el.  An' 
yer  Aunt  Milly  'd  holler  tew  if  she  was  here. 
More  honey  'n  I  can  draw  tu  one  jag  in  the  brass 
kittle  on  the  han'-sled,  an'  'nough  sight  better  for 
Nancy's  boy  'n  candy  't  ever  was !  Who,  whoop ! 
Why  don't  ye  hoot,  Gab'el?  Ta'  care,  you  ol' 
fool-head.  Keep  yer  nose  aouten  them  bees,  or 
they'll  make  ye  play  a  diffunt  tune  on  yer  hoot 
horn.  'They  ain't  dead,  but  sleepeth,'  as  the  tomb- 
stuns  says.  Who,  whoop!" 

Far  and  near  in  the  pearly  arches  of  the  woods 
155 


Hunting   Without   a   Gun. 

the  sleeping  echoes  awoke  again  to  repeat  the 
jubilant  chorus  of  the  hunter  and  hound,  and  far 
away  on  the  crest  of  the  hill  where  the  upper 
breezes  sang  among  the  pines  the  red-cockaded  log- 
cock,  also  hunting  his  Christmas  fare,  sent  back  a 
cheery  answering  cry. 


156 


UNCLE   GID'S   CHRISTMAS   TREE. 
II. 

OU  want  tu  quit  a-watchin'  for 
'em,  if  you  want  tu  hev  'em 
come,"  said  Uncle  Gid  Corbin, 
as  for  the  twentieth  time  on 
Christmas  morning  Aunt  Milly 
went  to  the  window,  wiped  the 
steam  from  a  pane  with  her  apron,  carefully  ad- 
justed her  spectacles,  and  searched  the  two  blue 
lines  which  marked  the  freshly  beaten  road  to 
where  they  blended  in  one,  on  the  crest  of  the 
farthest  ridge. 

"Wai,  I  do1  know  but  what  you're  right, 
father.  The'  hain't  nothin'  in  sight  as  fur's  I  can 
see.  There,  posityvely,  I  will  not  look  ag'in." 
She  fortified  herself  with  a  final  searching  glance, 
and  turning  her  back  resolutely  upon  the  shining 
outer  world,  waddled  briskly  across  the  kitchen, 
whose  furniture  celebrated  every  step  of  her 
progress  with  lively  acclaim. 

"Land  sakes!"  she  sighed,  as  much  with  the 
'57 


Hunting  Without  a  Gun. 

effort  of  squatting  before  the  oven  door  of  the 
stove  as  from  the  suggested  possibility.  "What  if 
they  shouldn't  come  arter  all." 

With  corrugated  brow  and  set  lips  she  made 
feints  at  the  hot  latch  with  her  bare  hand,  then 
sheathing  it  in  the  corner  of  the  ever  useful  apron 
she  flung  the  door  open,  letting  out  a  steaming 
fragrance  of  baked  meat  of  which  Uncle  Gid 
craned  his  neck  to  get  a  fuller  sniff. 

"They've  got  tu  come,"  said  Uncle  Gid,  leaning 
further  forward  and  sidewise  to  catch  a  glimpse  of 
the  source  of  the  savory  odor.  "You  'n'  I  can't 
eat  all  you've  fixed  up  in  a  fortni't.  By  hokey!  if 
they  git  a  smell  o'  that  'coon  a-roastin'  they'll  haf 
tu !  I'm  good  min'  tu  op'n  the  aoutside  door  an' 
let  some  on  't  drift  tow-wards  'em." 

"Wai,  it  doos  mos'  seem  's  'ough  the'  wouldn't 
ha'  been  so  much  come  so  providential  all  for 
nothin',"  said  Aunt  Milly,  as  she  drew  the  drip- 
ping pan  so  far  out  to  baste  its  contents  that  nearly 
the  whole  length  of  the  raccoon,  sweating  fat  at 
every  pore  and  beginning  to  blush  with  a  delicate 
bloom  of  brown,  was  displayed  to  her  husband's 
admiring  eyes.  He  heaved  a  sigh  of  satisfaction 
and  began  filling  his  pipe,  feeling  as  great  a  desire 
to  smoke  as  if  he  had  partaken  of  a  feast. 

"What  you  goin'  tu  call  it?"  she  asked,  as  she 
158 


Uncle  Gid's  Christmas  Tree. 

shoved  back  the  pan  and  closed  the  door.  'They 
might  spleen  ag'in  'coon." 

"They  can't  a-lookin'  at  it  an'  a-smellin'  on't,  an' 
folks  'at  spleens  ag'in  good  game  don't  desarve  no 
victuals,"  said  he,  adding,  after  some  reflection, 
"but  we  might  call  it  turkey." 

"Good  land!  a  four-legged  turkey!"  Aunt  Milly 
chuckled. 

"Wai,  you  needn't  laugh,  mother,  for  I  seen 
a  tew-headed  chicken  onct,  an'  I  d'  know  why  a  tur- 
key couldn't  jest  as  well  hev  a  extry  pair  o'  laigs. 
But  we  can  call  it  a  pig  if  you'd  any  druther." 

"Only  it  hain't  got  no  skin  on,"  she  objected. 

°Tain't  nob'dy's  bus'ness  if  we  skin  aour  pig," 
he  asserted;  "I'd  livser  'n  tu  singe  'em,  as  I  seen 
Pete  Frenchman  his'n.  Yes,  sir,  laid  his  coshaw, 
as  he  called  it,  ontu  a  scaffil,  an'  lit  some  straw  'n 
under  it,  an'  jest  scorched  the  brussels  off  on't. 
You  never  see  sech  a  lookin'  thing — blacker  'n 
Tony's  face.  I  sh'd  think  'twas  coshaw!" 

"What's  that,  anyway?"  Aunt  Milly  asked. 

"Oh,  I  s'pose  that  is  French  for  pig,"  Uncle 
Gid  answered,  and  then  to  the  hound,  who  came 
and  nuzzled  his  hand  for  a  caress:  "Why,  sartin, 
oP  dawg,  the'  wouldn't  ha'  been  no  'coons  nor  no 
honey  if  it  hedn't  'a'  been  for  him.  Course  his 
Uncle  Gid  knows  that,  an'  so  doos  his  Aunt 

159 


Hunting  Without  a   Gun. 

Milly;"  and  Gabriel  acknowledged  the  recognition 
of  his  service  with  rapid  beats  of  his  tail  that  swept 
the  sand  into  little  windrows  on  the  clean  scoured 
floor. 

Aunt  Milly's  face  lighted  up  suddenly  with  a 
happy  thought  that  flashed  upon  her.  "Le1s  we 
call  the  'coon  a  coshaw!" 

uBy  hokey,  we  will!"  Uncle  Gid  declared,  en- 
thusiastically; "if  they  can't  stomerk  it  by  that 
name,  the'  's  three  pa'tridges  for  'em,  one  apiece, 
an'  you  an'  me  'II  go  it  on  coshaw.  What  is  that 
'ere  noise?"  he  demanded,  with  a  quick  change  of 
tone,  as  the  mellow  jangling  of  Boston  bells  be- 
came audible  above  the  monotony  of  his  voke,  the 
shrill  song  of  the  kettle  and  the  muffled  sputtering 
of  the  raccoon  in  its  hot  prison. 

ujung-jang,  jung-jang,"  sang  the  sixteen  big  and 
little  hollow,  bronze  globes,  each  wide  mouth  smil- 
ing blandly  as  it  rolled  back  and  forth,  as  a  sweet 
morsel,  the  iron  pellet  which  was  its  tongue. 

"Le*  me  look,  mother;  if  you  look  it  won't  be 
them!"  cried  Uncle  Gid,  forestalling  his  wife's  ad- 
vance toward  the  window  with  such  celerity  that 
Gabriel  became  excited,  for  he  seldom  saw  his 
master  move  so  quickly,  unless  to  take  the  rifle 
from  its  hooks.  To  the  hound's  disappointment, 
he  stooped  to  the  window  and  carefully  regarded 

160 


Uncle  Gid's  Christmas  Tree. 

the  approaching  horse,  the  bread-tray  shaped 
sleigh,  and  its  occupants.  Then  as  they  recognized 
him  through  the  misty  panes,  and  smiled  and 
nodded  greeting,  he  proclaimed  joyfully : 

"Wai,  by  hokey !  it  is  them — Nancy  an'  Nathan 
an'  that  'ere  baby.  I  say  for  't  he  is  a  lunker  er 
less  they've  got  him  turribly  bundled  up." 

He  donned  his  cap,  and  as^  he  hurried  to  the 
door,  put  on  his  coat  with  the  collar  turned  in, 
which  Aunt  Milly  plucked  at  unsuccessfully  while 
she  bustled  behind  him  in  a  fidget  of  nervous  ex- 
citement, and  Gabriel  pressed  so  closely  in  the  rear 
as  to  threaten  the  downfall  of  both  in  his  struggle 
to  be  foremost.  Just  as  the  door  opened, 
the  jung-jang  of  the  bells  became  slower,  then 
broke  in  scattered  drops  of  musical  sound,  then 
ceased  before  it,  and  there  arose  a  less  musical,  but 
as  joyous,  and  louder  clamor  of  two  feminine 
voices,  both  asking  questions  at  once,  and  never 
answering  one,  for  that  must  come  later.  There 
was  also  the  clear,  shrill  treble  of  the  child's  voice 
beginning  the  relation  of  his  wonderful  journey, 
and  asking  unanswerable  questions;  and  Gabriel 
welcomed  the  guests  with  sonorous  trumpet  blasts ; 
while  the  two  men,  being  unable  to  exchange  an  in- 
telligible word,  grinned  dumbly  at  each  other  in 
amused  helplessness.  Then  the  boy  was  unloaded 

i6x 


Hunting  Without  a   Gun. 

into  the  embraces  of  his  grandmother,  and  Nathan, 
tall,  strong  and  good-natured,  diffusing  a  whole- 
some odor  of  the  chips  and  shavings  made  in  his 
craft  of  carpenter  and  joiner,  lumbered  out  of  the 
huge  bread-tray,  pulled  Nancy  out  of  the  entangle- 
ment of  the  buffalo*  skins,  and  got  her  on  her  feet 
— a  comely,  buxom  young  matron,  having  some- 
thing of  her  father's  height,  something  of  her 
mother's  breadth,  and  a  wifely,  motherly  face, 
aglow  with  health. 

At  last  Uncle  Gid  and  his  son-in-law  were  given 
an  opportunity  to  shake  hands  with  each  other, 
after  which  they  drove  to  the  stable  with  their  feet 
hanging  outside  the  sleigh,  and  made  the  horse  as 
comfortable  as  possible,  in  the  company  of  the  cow 
and  the  small  flock  of  poultry  to  whose  use  the 
equine  abode  had  long  been  devoted. 

When  they  entered  the  house  the  uninterrupted 
flow  of  the  women's  conversation  had  subsided  into 
two  nearly  distinct  currents,  and  was  almost  intel- 
ligible to  their  husbands;  yet  as  its  subjects  were 
mainly  marriages,  births  and  deaths,  it  did  not  in- 
terest the  men  so  much  that  they  did  not  find  more 
entertainment  in  their  own  chat  in  the  corner  be- 
hind the  stove.  Nathan  was  not  a  hunter,  but  he 
listened  attentively  to  Uncle  Gid's  stories  of  the 
chase,  and  said,  "Gosh!"  with  discriminating  em- 

162 


Uncle  Gid's  Christmas  Tree. 

phasis  at  the  proper  points.  He  sometimes  went 
fishing,  and  now  related  experiences,  in  which 
Uncle  Gid  expressed  no  unbelief;  also  both 
smoked,  so  there  were  various  bonds  of  sympathy 
between  them. 

The  little  boy,  with  a  slice  of  bread  and  honey, 
sat  on  the  floor  in  a  state  of  bedaubed  contentment, 
which  the  hound,  lying  far  under  the  stove,  did  not 
fully  share  in,  being  made  to  impersonate  the  horse 
in  a  rehearsal  of  the  late  memorable  sleigh  ride, 
his  tail  serving  as  reins. 

An  eavesdropper  might  have  gathered  from  the 
medley  of  voices,  accompanied  by  the  continuous 
shrill  tenor  of  the  tea  kettle  and  the  bass  of  the 
stove  draught,  something  like  this  of  the  double 
dialogue : 

"An*  don't  you  believe,  Nancy  Sherman,  it 
wa'n't  scarcely  six  months  arter  Miss  Hale  was 
laid  in  her  grave,  not  more  'n  seven,  anyway,  'fore 
the  Squire  up  an'  married  Susan  Taylor." 

"You  don't  say!" 

"Yes,  sir.  Some  thought  it  was  kinder  craowdin' 
the  mourners ;  but  I  s'pose  he  felt  for  the  want  of  a 
companion." 

"Wai,  wal !  I  see  't  the  Hale  place  was  fixed  up 
dreadful  scrumptious  as  we  come  by,  but  I  hedn't 
no  idee!" 

163 


Hunting   Without   a   Gun. 

"Yes,  indeed;  an'  they  went  over  the  lake  tu  her 
folkses  on  their  weddin'  taower." 

"I  want  to  know!" 

"An'  naow,  if  they  ain't  got  a  baby." 

"Mother  Corbin,  for  all  this  livin'  world!" 

"Doe  long,  bonny;  doe  long,  me  tell  you!  Bell 
say  'd'long,  d'long,'  too." 

"See  that  young  un !  Wai,  as  I  was  a-tellin',  I 
was  stan'in'  a-listenin'  tu  the  dawg  tunin'  of  her 
up,  away  west  on  me,  an'  me  a-lookin'  that  way  wi' 
all  my  eyes,  an'  gun  a-ready,  when  all  tu  onct  I 
hear  a  bush  crack  right  behind  me,  an'  I  turned  my 
head  s-l-o-w,  an'  by  hokey !  if  there  wasn't  that  tar- 
nal  fox,  not  ten  rod  off." 

"Gosh!" 

"A-list'nin'  tu  Gab'el." 

"Gosh!" 

"An'  I  swung  the  ol'  churn  ontu  him,  s-l-o-w,  an' 
onhitched  an'  plummed  him  right  through." 

"Gosh!" 

"Come  tu,  I'd  forgot  my  knife,  an'  hed  tu  lug 
him  clean  hum  tu  skin  him." 

"Gosh!" 

"Jest  for  the  notion  I  weighed  him,  an'  he 
weighed  jest  twelve  pounds  and  a  half." 

"Gosh!  Ezactly  what  a  pickerel  weighed  't  I 
ketched  on  a  tilt-up  last  week." 

164 


Uncle  Gid's  Christmas  Tree. 

"I  hain't  no  sorter  doubt  on't.  Jes'  look  a'  that 
young  un,  will  ye?  Think's  he's  drivin'  a  sure 
'nough  hoss." 

As  the  two  men  watched  the  child,  conversation 
slacked,  when  Aunt  Milly  was  reminded  of  her 
charge  in  the  oven  by  the  sputtering  of  the  fat  in 
the  dripping  pan,  and  opening  the  door  she  re- 
leased a  cloud  of  savory  odor. 

"My  land!"  Nancy  cried,  as  she  inhaled  it. 
"Whatever  you're  a-cookin',  it  smells  dreadful 
good.  What  is't,  mother  ?"  she  asked,  curiously, 
observing  it  during  the  process  of  basting.  'Tain't 
turkey — it  don't  look  like  a  pig;  what  is't?" 

"Wai,"  Aunt  Milly  answered,  prodding  the 
thicker  parts  with  a  fork,  "it  is  a — it  is  a — land 
sakes!  what  is  the  name  on't,  father?" 

Uncle  Gid  looked  intently  into  the  bowl  of  his 
pipe  as  he  answered,  laconically:  "Coshaw." 

"Good  land;  yes,  -it's  coshaw.  Why  can't  I 
never  think  on't!"  said  Aunt  Milly. 

"Coshaw!  coshaw!"  her  daughter  repeated. 
"Wai,  I  never  heard  o'  them  afore.  Jest  yu  look 
at  it,  Nathan." 

While  Nathan  examined  it  Uncle  Gid  became 
more  absorbed  in  the  contemplation  of  his  pipe, 
and  so  continued  till  Nathan  declared : 

"Wai,  it  beats  me,  if  it  hain't  a  lamb,  or  a  pig, 
165 


Hunting   Without   a   Gun. 

or  suthin'.     What  sort  of  a  critter  is't?     It  'pears 
tu  be  a  quaderyped." 

uNo,  't  wa'n't  the  name  't  was  gi'n  tu  us." 
Aunt  Milly  shook  her  head  in  slow  negation.  "It's 
a  coshaw,  an'  it  come  tu  us  for  Christmas,  an'  that's 
all  we  can  tell  ye  abaout  it  now.  If  you  don't  like 
it  there's  pa'tridges — father  ketched  three  yest'- 
day.  D'ye  druther  hev  'em  br'iled  er  roasted?" 

"It  don't  make  no  diff'rence  tu  me,"  said 
Nathan.  "Accordin'  tu  the  looks  and  smell  on't  I 
do'  want  nuthin'  better  'n  that  'ere — what  d'ye  call 
it?"  And  his  wife  quite  agreed  with  him. 

Nevertheless  Aunt  Milly  broiled  the  partridges, 
and  added  a  finer  fragrance  to  the  appetizing  odors 
that  pervaded  the  kitchen.  But  these  were  as 
nothing  to  their  substantial  resources — the  roasted 
raccoon,  the  broiled  partridges,  the  baked  pota- 
toes, the  hot  johnny-cake  and  biscuits,  the  cider  ap- 
ple sauce,  the  honey,  and  the  pumpkin  pies,  Of 
all  the  dishes  that  furnished  forth  the  crowded 
board  the  prime  favorite  was  the  mysterious  roast. 

Discoursing  while  they  feasted,  Uncle  Gid  told 
of  hunting  the  partridges,  and  just  missed  disclos- 
ing the  finding  of  the  'coons;  and  when  Aunt  Millv 
explained  how  they  came  by  honey  she  nearly  let 
the  'coon  out  of  the  tree,  yet  the  uninitiated  were 
still  none  the  wiser. 

166 


Uncle  Gid's  Christmas  Tree. 

As  has  been  at  least  once  reported  of  a  social 
gathering,  it  may  be  truly  said  of  this,  that  uall 
did  ample  justice  to  the  bountiful  repast" — even 
little  Gideon,  elevated  on  the  family  Bible  to  a 
working  height,  plied  knife  and  fork  so  manfully 
that  his  grandfather's  heart  was  filled  with  pride, 
while  his  female  progenitors  foretold  such  woeful 
retribution  as  ever  is  prophesied  to  overtake 
greedy  little  boys;  but,  as  usually  happens  in  such 
cases,  the  prediction  was  not  fulfilled. 

uDu  let  the  boy  eat;  it'll  du  him  good,"  said  his 
reckless  father. 

"If  you  hain't  jest  like  a  man!"  Aunt  Milly 
said,  regretfully. 

uGosh!"  Nathan  replied,  and  went  into  the 
woodshed  in  search  of  a  stick  suitable  for  the  man- 
ufacture of  a  toothpick.  As  with  a  professional  eye 
he  scanned  the  interior  architecture  he  discovered 
a  fresh  raccoon  skin  nailed  upon  the  boards  in  an 
obscure  corner.  When  he  re-entered  the  kitchen 
he  remarked  casually:  "I  found  aout  one  thing 
'baout  that  'ere  coshaw.  It  hed  rings  raound  its 
tail.  Gosh!" 


167 


A  NEW  YEAR'S  SWEARING-OFF. 


ETER  FOLSOM  came  into  the 
kitchen,  where  his  wife  and 
daughter  were  busy  about  the 
roaring,  glowing  stove,  on 
whose  top  the  coffee-pot  bub- 
bled a  soft  accompaniment  to 
the  shrieking  and  sputtering  of  a  pan  of  sausages, 
and  out  of  whose  elevated  oven  came  the  aroma 
of  baking  potatoes.  He"  glanced  up  at  the  clock 
and  the  long-barreled  fowling  piece  that  hung  be- 
side it,  then  furtively  at  the  stove,  but  not  at  his 
wife,  as  he  addressed  her:  "Is  breakfast  'most 
ready,  mother?  'Cause  if  it  hain't,  I'll  git  a  bite 
o'  suthin'  an'  be  off,  for  I'm  kinder  in  a  hurry." 

Mrs.  Folsom  set  her  lips  firmly  to  the  delicate 
task  of  turning  the  sausages  and  accomplished  it 
before  she  demanded:  "What  be  you  in  such  a 
pucker  for,  father  ?  Be  you  a-goin'  somewhere  on 
business?"  . 

Peter  cleared  his  throat  and  answered  rather  de- 
fiantly, "Wall,  yes,  sorter.  You  might  say  business 

168 


A  Nezv  Yearns  Swearing-Off. 

and  pleasure.  I'm  a-goin'  to  give  them  haoun'  dogs 
a  little  ex'cise.  It's  the  neatest  mornin'  't  ever 
was;  not  a  breath  stirrin',  an'  a  little  speck  o'  new 
snow,  jest  'nough  to  kiver  up  ol'  tracks.  Seems  's 
'ough  I'd  orter  improve  it,  for  the'  won't  be  an- 
other like  it  this  year,  bein'  it's  the  last  one  in  it." 

His  tone  had  become  apologetic,  but  neither  that 
nor  the  poor  attempt  at  a  joke  softened  the  set 
sternness  of  his  wife's  face. 

"I  s'pected  as  much!"  she  said,  with  a  short, 
contemptuous  laugh.  "Wai,  if  that's  all,  you'd 
better  set  daown  an'  eat  your  breakfus'  wi'  the  rest 
on  us  like  a  civilized  bein',  when  it's  sot  ont'  the 
table,  when  the  boys  come  in  from  the  barn.  I 
should  think  'at  you'd  got  abaout  old  enough  tu 
quit  a-rampin'  'raound  up  hill  and  down  dale, 
arter  a  mess  o'  yollopin'  haoun'  dogs  a-distractin' 
decent  folks  wi'  their  plaguey  noise !" 

"If  some  folks  hain't  got  no  ear  for  music,  I  do' 
know  as  the  haoun'  dogs  is  tu  blame  for  it,  singin' 
glory  halleluyer,  no  more  'n  the  birds  is  for  singin' 
in  the  mornin',"  said  Peter,  with  his  back  to  his 
wife,  as  he  washed  face  and  hands  at  the  sink. 
"I've  hearn  folks  find  fault  wi'  them." 

She  vouchsafed  no  rejoinder  beyond  a  con- 
temptuous sniff. 

"Lizabeth,"  he  said  to  the  daughter,  while  he 
169 


Hunting  Without  a   Gun. 

wiped  vigorously  on  the  roller  towel,  shaking  out 
some  words  and  smothering  some.  "You  see  if 
you  can't  find  me  a  'tater  'at's  done,  an'  gi'  me  a 
piece  o'  sassidge  an'  a  cup  o'  coffee."  Then  seat- 
ing himself  at  the  table,  he  took  up  Mrs.  Fol- 
som's  assertions  at  the  beginning,  while  he  awaited 
the  bringing  of  his  breakfast.  "You  was  a-sayin' 
haow  I  was  oP  'nough  tu  quit  huntin'.  Wai,  I 
hain't  only  just  turned  o'  sixty,  an'  my  gran'ther 
he  hunted  when  he  was  in  his  eighty-fif  year. 
Father  didn't  hunt  none,  but  he  was  able  tu  when 
he  was  eighty  year  oP  if  he'd  wanted  tu.  That 
gives  me  twenty  year  on't  yet." 

"The  wust  on't  is  the  eggsample  you're  settin' 
your  boys — a-shoolin'  'raound,"  said  Mrs.  Folsom. 

Her  husband  broke  a  Mercer  potato1  in  two 
and  whetted  his  appetite  with  a  sniff  of  its  fra- 
grance before  replying.  "That  idee  hain't  no 
gre't  weight,  sence  they  don't  care  a  button  for 
huntin',  'ceptin'  little  Pete;  he  takes  arter  my  gran'- 
ther some — t'others  arter  their  gran'ther.  Tom's 
all  hoss,  more's  the  pity,  an'  Joe's  all  cattle.  Pete's 
got  dog  an'  gun  born  into  him,  an'  you  can't  git  it 
aout  on  him,  'gsample  or  no  'gsample."  He 
mashed  and  buttered  his  potato  while  his  wife 
fitted  another  arrow  to  her  bow  and  let  fly. 

"It's  mis'able,  goo'-for-nothin',  low-daown, 
170 


A  New  Year's  Swearing-Off. 

lazy,  loafin'  business,  an'  them  'at  follers  it  hain't 
no  'caount.  Look  a'  oF  Bill  Leggett  an'  Jim 
Fisher!" 

He  fortified  himself  with  a  mouthful  of  sausage 
and  as  much  potato  as  a  quarter  of  his  knife  blade 
would  hold,  and  began  speaking  before  his  mouth 
was  clear  of  them.  "I  don't  hold  'at  a  man  had 
ort  tu  hunt  all  the  time  when  game's  as  scarce  as  it 
is  now-er-days,  but  take  it  reasonable.  You  don't 
want  tu  go  tu  quiltin'  every  day,  nor  try  tu  live  on 
tea  wi'aout  no  victuals.  Took  reasonable  they're 
stimerlatin'  an1  comfortin',  an'  so's  huntin'.  Billy 
an'  Jim  overdoes  it,  but  I  know  wuss  men,  an'  they 
be,  'at  belongs  to  the  church.  An'  as  for  me,  I've 
allers  managed  tu  git  a  decent  livin'  off'm  the 
farm,  an'  go  a-huntin'  once  in  a  while,  tew!" 

"I  hope  you  allers  will,  father,"  said  Elizabeth, 
at  his  elbow  with  his  coffee. 

"It's  a  snare  o'  the  evil  one,"  Mrs.  Folsom 
said,  piously,  giving  the  last  link  of  sausage  a 
spiteful  jab  as  she  transferred  it  from  the  frying- 
pan  to  the  platter.  "The  hymn  says,  'Satan  allers 
finds  a  job  for  idle  hands  tu  du.'  ' 

"A  fellow  'at's  a-huntin'  in  airnest  hain't  turri- 
ble  idle,"  said  Peter;  then,  in  parenthesis,  " 'Liza- 
beth,  won't  you  jest  give  them  'ere  dogs  some  col' 
johnny-cake.  The  good  book  tells  o'  Nimrod 

171 


Hunting   Without   a   Gun. 

a-beirT  a  mighty  hunter  afore  the  Lord,  which,  it 
'pears,  his  doin's  was  approved  on." 

"Proberbly  he  didn't  hev  sons  growed  up,  an' 
a-growin'  up,  an'  a  darter  a  young  woman  grown. 
Proberbly  he  didn't  hev  no  wife,  even." 

"It's  a  hopesin'  he  didn't!"  Peter  interrupted, 
fervently. 

"So  say  I !"  she  cried,  with  equal  fervor.  "A 
man  'at  goes  a-huntin'  hedn't  ort  tu  hev  no  wife 
to  worry  abaout  him,  an'  be  'shamed  an'  lunsome 
an'  bothered  wi'  haoun'  dogs  allers  underfoot  an' 
allers  hungry  an'  slobberin'  an'  into  everything! 
He'd  ort  tu  be  a  batchelder  an'  a  hermit,  but  he's 
more  like  tu  be  a  widderer  if  he's  single,  but  then, 
pussecuted  women  don't  die  fust!" 

Peter  ate  in  silence,  pondering  deeply,  until  his 
sons  came  in,  noisy  and  hungry,  from  the  morning 
chores,  and  with  them  the  two  gaunt  hounds, 
whimpering  and  careering  in  an  excess  of  joy  that 
belied  sorrowful  faces.  While  they  snatched  ap- 
portioned alternate  rations  from  Elizabeth's  timid 
fingers  and  beat  the  skirts  of  their  unfriendly  mis- 
tress with  their  slender,  bony  tails,  their  master 
arose  and  put  on  his  deep-pocketed,  blue-striped 
woolen  frock,  took  down  the  long  gun,  powder- 
horn  and  shot-pouch,  and  then,  facing  about,  ad- 
dressed his  household. 

172 


A  New  Year's  Swearing-Off. 

"I  do'  know  but  what  you're  right,  mother,  an' 
I  p'sume  tu  say  I  be  an  ol'  fool,  an'  orter  quit 
a-bein'  one.  Anyways,  I  been  tol'  on't  times 
enough,  an'  I've  got  sick  an'  tired  of  hevin'  on't 
hove  in  my  face  an'  dinged  intu  my  ears.  So  I  tell 
ye,  all  on  ye,  this  'ere's  my  last  day.  Whatever 
my  luck  is,  tu-night  I  swear  off  a-huntin'  forever 
an'  ever  more.  The  dogs  I'll  give  away  afore  I 
come  hum;  the  gun  I  won't — it  was  gran'ther's, 
an'  Pete  can  hev  it  for  his'n,  if  he's  fool  enough 
tu  go  huntin'  when  he  gits  growed  up  an'  lucky 
'nough  tu  be  'lowed  tu,  in  peace.  Mother,  Tom, 
Joe,  'Lizabeth,  Pete — this  'ere's  the  last  time 
you'll  see  me  a-goin'  aout  wi'  haoun's  an'  gun. 
Pete,  arter  you  git  your  breakfus'  eat,  if  you're 
a-min'  ter,  you  can  take  your  gun  an'  come  up  on 
t'  the  hill.  If  we  start  a  fox,  an'  we  shall,  if  the' 
is  one,  he'll  run  on  the  bare  ledges.  Come  Scott, 
come  Papinew!" 

He  went  out,  followed  by  the  four-footed  name- 
sakes of  two  then  popular  heroes,  one  of  the 
United  States,  the  other  of  Canada,  and. followed 
by  the  gaze  of  the  family. 

"Wai,  I  never!"  Mrs.  Folsom  gasped  with  re- 
turning breath. 

"Father's  got  his  dander  up!"  said  horsey 
Tom;  and  Joe,  stolid  as  one  of  his  pet  oxen,  stared 

173 


Hunting   Without  a   Gun. 

as  calmly  and  silently,  while  the  more  sympathetic 
Elizabeth  cried  out,  pitifully: 

"Poor  father,  it's  too  bad  tu  hetchell  him  so!" 
and  Pete  bewailed  the  loss  of  his  friends,  the 
hounds. 

Though  the  household  gods  frowned,  nature's 
mood  was  benign,  and  she  seemed  to  have  set  her- 
self to  making  Peter  Folsom's  last  day  with  gun 
and  hounds  a  pleasant  one.  The  sky  was  un- 
clouded, but  filmed  with  haze,  and  the  windless 
air,  through  which  such  slight  noises  as  the  tap- 
ping of  a  downy  woodpecker  or  the  piping  of  a 
nuthatch  came  from  distant  woods,  was  so  soft 
that  the  inch  of  newly  fallen  snow  took  the  im- 
print of  footsteps  like  a  sheet  of  white  wax. 
Thereon  a  fox  had  left  a  record  of  his  nightly 
wandering,  and  the  old  hound  Scott,  reading  it  by 
a  finer  sense  than  sight,  proclaimed  it  with  deep- 
toned  trumpet-blasts  and  Papineau  gave  confirma- 
tion in  higher  key,  while  from  woods  and  hills  a 
chorus  of  echoes  swelled  the  musical  confusion. 
Reynard  awoke  from  his  morning  nap  and  forth- 
with betook  himself  to  his  traditional  tricks  on  his 
ancestral  runways,  where  he  was  waylaid  and  low- 
laid  by  Peter  the  elder,  before  Peter  the  younger 
appeared  upon  the  scene  to  exult  in  and  envy  his 
father's  success.  The  hounds  were  as  keen  for 


A  New  Year's  Swearing-Off. 

further  work  as  at  the  beginning,  and  soon  found 
another  fox  full  of  years  and  cunning,  which 
availed  him  not  in  the  end,  for  the  father — that 
he  might  have  a  worthy  successor — gave  the  son 
much  instruction  concerning  runways,  which  the 
latter  so  quickly  put  to  use  that  he  got  the  first 
shot  at  the  fox  and  killed  it,  an  achievement  which 
his  father  gloried  in  as  much  as  he,  though  more 
soberly.  Foxes  were  abroad  that  day,  and  an- 
other was  started  who  was  wiser  and  more  for- 
tunate than  his  predecessors  in  steering  clear  of 
manned  runways,  and  at  last  took  sanctuary  in  the 
cloisters  of  the  earth. 

The  continuous  music  of  the  hounds  had  called 
out  all  the  hunters  within  hearing  of  it,  and  they 
now  gathered  about  the  hole  where  the  hounds 
were  taking  turns  at  baying  and  tearing  at  the 
frozen  earth.  Before  the  company,  Peter  made  a 
final  renunciation  of  sport,  and  burned  his  ships, 
giving  away  his  hounds  to  an  old  comrade  who  he 
was  sure  would  treat  them  kindly.  Everyone  won- 
dered at  his  strange  action,  but  he  would  give  no 
explanation,  and  turning  his  back  resolutely  on 
his  friends,  he  trudged  bravely  away,  followed  by 
the  boy,  a  little  comforted  by  the  trophy  that 
dangled  from  his  pocket,  for  the  parting  with  the 
dogs,  who,  straining  at  their  leashes,  their  brows 

175 


Hunting  Without  a   Gun. 

deeply  wrinkled  with  puzzled  inquiry,  whined  in 
sorrowful  farewell. 

"If  ever  you  hear  the  dogs  a-comin'  off'm  the 
hill  this  way,"  Peter  said  to  his  son,  as  they 
crossed  a  long  ridge  in  the  open  fields,  "an'  you 
can  git  tu  that  'ere  thorn-apple  tree  by  the  fence 
quick  enough,  you'll  sartin  git  a  shot  at  the  fox. 
I  hain't  never  knowed  'em  tu  fail  a-crossin'  there 
in  forty-five  year,  an'  many's  the  one  I've  laid  aout 
there.  But,  oh,  Lord!  I  shan't  never  ag'in!"  He 
heaved  a  sigh  from  the  depths  of  his  bosom  and 
turned  his  face  from  the  favorite  old  runway, 
around  which  clung  such  happy  memories. 

When  they  reached  home  he  hung  the  gun  on 
its  hooks,  sadly  pondering  the  thought  that  he 
should  never  take  it  from  them  again  for  any 
nobler  purpose  than  shooting  a  corn-pulling  crow 
or  a  raiding  hen-hawk — never  again  for  a  day  of 
glorious  sport.  He  lingered  long  over  the  stretch- 
ing of  the  pelts,  giving  his  son  minute  instructions, 
and  remembering  how  awkwardly  he  skinned  and 
stretched  his  first  trophy,  and  comparing  the  dex- 
terity which  experience  had  given.  The  house 
looked  strange  to  him  without  the  familiar 
hounds,  concerning  whom  young  Peter  confided  to 
his  sister : 

"He  just  gi'n  Scott  and  Papinew  right  aout  an' 
176 


A  New  Year's  Swearing-Off. 

aout  tu  ol'  John  Benham.  He  pooty  nigh  cried 
when  he  done  it.  I  was  tew  mad  tu — givin'  away 
them  haoun's,  the  best  there  is  in  ten  taowns." 

"Clever  oF  critters,  I  shall  miss  'em,"  Elizabeth 
sighed. 

The  first  day  of  the  New  Year  was  patterned 
after  the  last  of  the  old  year,  as  cloudless,  as  soft- 
tinted  with  haze,  and  as  windless,  but  for  a  breath 
of  warmer  air  from  the  south,  so  light  that  it  did 
not  sweep  away  the  echoes,  nor  its  murmur  disturb 
their  far  rebound.  One  echo  cast  afar  from  a 
gorge  of  the  wooded  hill  caught  Peter  Folsom's 
ear  as  he  walked  from  the  barn  to  the  house  in 
the  middle  of  the  forenoon.  It  had  a  familiar 
cadence,  and  he  stopped,  listening  intently.  Again 
the  mellow  echo  came  across  the  wide  fields,  and 
with  it  another  as  melodious,  but  higher  pitched. 

"It's  Scott  an'  Papinew!"  he  exclaimed  aloud, 
and  now,  as  they  broke  over  the  crest  of  the  hill 
in  full  cry,  an  ear  less  keen  than  his  could  not  have 
mistaken  the  voices.  "John's  fetched  'em  up  there 
jest  tu  aggravate  me,  an'  it's  tew  'tarnal  bad! 
Sech  a  day  tu  hear  a  dog !  Sech  trackin' !"  He 
pressed  his  fingers  on  the  soft  snow  that  capped 
the  fence  post  beside  him,  his  eyes  and  ears  intent 
on  the  hill  crest,  along  which  the  chase  now 
tended,  trumpet  and  bugle  now  alternating,  now 

177 


Hunting  Without   a  Gun. 

in  unison,  now  indistinguishable  in  the  jangle  of 
their  own  echoes.  They  reached  the  end  of  the 
hill,  turned  and  drew  near  the  foot,  and  Peter 
soliloquized  in  short,  eager  sentences,  as  he  looked 
and  listened.  "There,  they're  comin'  off  'm  the 
hill!  If  they  du,  I'll  bet  the  fox'll  come  tu  the 
thorn-apple  tree!  I'll  bet  the'  hain't  nob'dy 
stan'in'  there!  The'  hain't  be'n  time  for  'em  tu!" 
Pie  moved  to  where  he  had  a  view  of  the  low- 
spreading  tree  in  scraggy  silhouette  against  the 
blue-gray  sky.  uNo,  the'  hain't  a  soul !  He'll  go 
by,  an'  git  tu  the  west  woods,  an'  that'll  be  the  end 
on't !  Oh,  if  the'  was  anybody  I  could  send !  Pete ! 
Pete!"  he  called.  "Oh,  he's  gone  a-skatin'- 
plague  on't!  If  'Lizabeth  could  only  shoot! 
Tom  an'  Joe  wouldn't  go  a  rod  if  they  was  here, 
blast  'em,  an'  they  couldn't  hit  a  meetin'  house 
a-stan'in'  still!  I'd  hev'  jest  abaout  time!  Th' 
oP  gun  is  loaded  for  business!  Oh,  I  swear! 
Flesh  an'  blood  can't  stan'  it.  I've  got  tu  go !" 

He  broke  for  the  house  on  a  run,  burst  into  the 
kitchen  without  slackening  his  pace,  almost  upset 
his  wife  and  daughter,  in  the  midst  of  their  New 
Year  dinner  preparations,  seized  the  gun,  and  was 
out  again  and  away  before  they  recovered  speech 
beyond  squeals  and  exclamations.  Running  to 
the  door,  they  saw  him  going  at  top  speed  across 

178 


A  New  Year's  Swcaring-Off. 

the  fields,  heard  the  eager  baying  of  the  hounds, 
and  the  situation  was  made  clear  to  them.  They 
saw  him  reach  the  fence  and  run  beside  it,  crouch- 
ing like  a  skulking  partridge,  till  he  came  to  the 
thorn  tree,  and  then  standing  beside  it  as  steadfast 
as  its  trunk.  Then  they  saw  the  long  gun  rise 
slowly  to  an  aim,  belch  a  cloud  of  smoke,  and  him 
running  into  the  smother  before  the  report  came 
rolling  down  to  them.  They  saw  him  come  out 
of  it,  swinging  something  aloft  from  the  leaping 
hounds. 

Mrs.  Folsom  exhaled  a  deep  sigh  of  relief. 
"Wai,  your  father's  got  him!" 

uBe  you  glad,  mother?  I  be,"  Elizabeth  asked 
and  answered  for  herself,  as  her  mother  did  not, 
but  turned  and  wrent  into  the  house. 

Half  an  hour  later  Peter  returned,  meek  and 
shame-faced,  with  the  hounds  plodding  soberly  at 
his  heels.  But  there  was  a  gleam  of  pride  in  his 
eyes,  as  he  threw  his  trophy  from  his  shoulder,  a 
beautiful  silver-gray  fox. 

"I  reckoned  you  folks  would  kinder  lufter  see 
the  critter  wi'  his  clo's  on.  I  didn't  let  the  dogs 
touch  him.  He's  the  han'somest  one  ever  I  see, 
an'  you  an'  'Lizabeth  may  hev  what  he  fetches— 
$50,  I  warrant  ye.  I  hed  tu  go,  mother.  It  hain't 
no  use,  me  a-fightin'  ag'in  the  sperit  an'  the  flesh, 

179 


Hunting  Without   a   Gun. 

an'  I  shall  hafter  go  a-huntin'  till  I  break  a  laig, 
or  git  crippled  wi'  rheumatiz,  or  die." 

"It's  a-hopesin'  the'  won't  nary  one  happen  tu 
ye  for  a  good  spell,  father!"  his  wife  said,  her 
face  shining  with  a  kindly  light.  "  'Lizabeth,  the's 
a  hul  col'  johnny-cake  on  the  butt'ry  shelf  for  the 
haoun'  dogs.  You  know  they  wa'nt  here  las'  night 
tu  git  fed.  Poor  creeturs,  they  du  look  hungry!" 


180 


A  BROTHER-IN-LAW  OF  ANTOINE. 

IS  Uncle  Lisha  was  rasping  with 
his  float  at  a  hidden  peg  in  the 
toe  of  a  newly  tapped  boot,  his 
unemployed  eyes  staring  idly 
out  the  window  caught  sight  of 
two  approaching  figures.  They 
were  evidently  engaged  in  earnest  conversation, 
each  in  turn  gesticulating  violently,  while  the  other 
listened  intently. 

uOne  of  'em's  Ann  Twine,  but  who  t'other  is, 
is  more'n  I  know/'  the  old  shoemaker  solilo- 
quized, while  the  float  went  wide  of  its  mark. 
"He's  one  o'  the  same  breed,  I  know,  by  the  mo- 
tions on  him,  talkin'  wi'  his  arms  as  much  as  he 
does  wi'  his  mouth.  I  wonder  what  the  critters 
du  in  the  dark,  or  haow  they  make  one  on  'em 
onderstan'  when  he  gits  blind.  If  one  on  'em  was 
struck  dumb  he  c'd  keep  on  a-talkin'  jest  the  same. 
What  a  tarnal  language,  anyway." 

Then  giving  the  boot  a  final  inner  thrust  and 
pitching  it  aside,  "There,  I  guess  that  won't  hurt 
more'n  tu  make  Jozeff  pick  up  his  quates  lively." 

181 


Hunting  Without  a  Gun. 

Antoine  now  entered  with  his  companion,  a  mail 
of  his  own  build  and  complexion,  but  younger 
and  dressed  completely  in  Canadian  homespun. 
Uncle  Lisha  welcomed  them  with  boisterous 
heartiness. 

"Come  in,  Ann  Twine,  come  in,  and  come 
massy  vaw.  Who's  that  youVe  fetched  wi'  ye?" 

"Good  morny,  One'  Lasha.  Dis  was  one  mah 
relishin',  one  mah  beau  frere,  wat  you  call  mah 
brudder-law.  Hees  name  Jules  La  Roche." 

"Jule,  Jule?"  Uncle  Lisha  repeated.  "Why, 
that's  a  she  name,  short  for  Julia.  Haow  come 
one  o'  yer  brother-in-laws  tu  hev  it?  Was  the'  so 
many  on  'em  'at  the'  wa'n't  'nough  men's  names  tu 
go  'raound?" 

"O,  we  gat  Jules  for  the  mans  an'  Julie  for  de 
hwomans.  Dat  better  as  fer  de  Yankee  had  Jesse 
for  bose  of  it,  sem  Ah'll  hear  sometam,"  Antoine 
retorted,  and  took  up  the  broken  thread  of  his  dis- 
course. "Mah  brudder-law  ant  hable  for  spoke 
Angleesh,  not  mos'  leetly  mite.  Ah  do'  know  'f 
he  ever  goin'  be  hable,  lak  me." 

Antoine  continued  the  introduction  in  French 
to  his  brother-in-law,  who  grinned  affably,  while 
he  heroically  endured  Uncle  Lisha's  clamp-like 
grip- 

"Hope  I  see  you  well?  Take  a  cheer  an'  set 
182 


A  Brother-in-law  of  Anioine. 

daown,"  cried  the  old  man,  cordially.  "Praw 
gaddy  that  three-legged  one;  he  tippy  ovy  toot 
sweet.  Dumb  it,  Ann  Twine,  he  don't  onderstan' 
French  no  better'n  he  does  English.  Give  him  a 
cheer  'at  won't  cast  him.  So  he's  r'ally  one  o'  your 
brother-in-laws,  hey?  Wai,  I've  wondered  more'n 
a  thaousan'  times  'at  some  on  'em  didn't  spill 
aouten  Canerdy  oncte  in  a  while,  for  it  must  be 
pooty  nigh  runnin'  over  wi'  'em." 

uYas,  one  udder  mans  come  wid  it  for  work  in 
hayin'  can'  spik  Angleesh  no  more  as  he,  an'  he 
want  haire  aout,  bose  of  it,  an'  he  can'  haire  aout, 
so  he  come  gat  me  for  haire  it  aout  on  some  dat 
big  hoi'  farmer  daown  to  de  lake.  Udder  man  on 
mah  haouse  wid  hees  hoss  an'  cart.  He  coozin 
on  Ursule." 

uSo  you're  goin'  to  intarpret  for  'em,  be  ye? 
What  you  goin'  tu  make  out  on't?" 

"Wai,  seh,  Ah  don't  know  if  Ah'll  ant  haire 
aout  mahse'f,  prob'ly,  w'en  Ah  gat  dem  feller  all 
haire  aout,  too.  Oh,  One'  Lasha,  Ah'll  ant  never 
see  so  fool  lak  mah  brudder-law,  me." 

uS-s-sh,  don't  talk  so  right  tu  his  head!  You'll 
hurt  his  feelin's  ef  you  don't  mad  him,"  Uncle 
Lisha  whispered  gustily  behind  a  waxy  palm.  But 
his  anxiety  was  at  once  relieved,  not  only  by  An- 
toine's  assurances,  but  by  the  grins  and  nods  of  the 

183 


Hunting  Without  a  Gun. 

subject  of  his  remarks,  bestowed  impartially  on 
both  speakers. 

"O,  don't  you  'fred,  One'  Lasha.  He  can' 
on'stan'  Angleesh  more  as  geeses,  an'  dat  was  mek 
it  so  fool  for  come  on  de  State,  two  of  it,  bose 
can'  on'stan'  Angleesh  no  more  as  he  talk  aour 
language.  Wat  s'pose  prob'ly  dem  two  fool  goin' 
do  'f  he  ant  fin'  me,  hein?" 

Then  he  explained  in  French  to  his  brother-in- 
law,  "I  am  telling  the  old  shoemaker  what  beauti- 
ful moccasins  you  make."  Whereupon  the 
brother-in-law  grinned  more  complacently  and 
modestly  thrust  forth  a  moccasined  foot. 

"Sem  tarn  he  so  fool,  he  sma't  lak  ev'ryt'ing," 
Antoine  continued,  addressing  Uncle  Lisha.  "He 
mow  mos'  more  as  Ah  can.  He  jes'  good  for  all 
hayin'  work,  pitch  load,  ev'ryt'ing,  an'  he  could 
rip  an'  bine  de  grain  so  you  never  see  to  beat  it. 
He  could  chawp  de  hwood  lak  hoi'  hurrycane.  O, 
all  kan'  o'  work  he  can  do,  an'  he  fi'le  lak  forty 
bobolink  singin',  so  you  can'  kept  you  foots  on  de 
floor.  O,  bah  gosh!  Ah'll  wisht  he  gat  hees  fi'le 
so1  you  can  heard  it  play.  Bah  gosh,  he  can  play 
t'ree  four  tune  all  de  sem  tarn,  yas  seh !  Oh,  One' 
Lasha"  (Antoine's  face  assumed  an  expression  of 
awed  solemnity),  "de  t'ing  he  do  mos'  hard.es'  was 
faght.  Yas,  seh.  He  mos'  more  hugly  Ah  was." 

184 


A  Brother-in-law  of  Antoine. 

"Shaw,  Ann  Twine;  you  don't  say  so,"  Uncle 
Lisha  remarked,  looking  with  amused  curiosity  at 
the  terrible  little  brother-in-law. 

"Yas,  he  awfly  mans.  He  leek  all  de  mans  all 
'raoun'  where  he  leeve  an'  wat  he  ant  leek  he  scare 
mos'  to  deat',  an'  w'en  dey  ant  no  more  he  scare 
hese'f,  too." 

"Scairt  hisself?  Wai,  that  is  cur'us.  Haow 
come  he  tu?" 

"Wai,  seh,  dat  was  de  tarn  he  have  de  wors' 
faght  he  ever  have.  It  was  be  awfuls,  but  it  was 
kan'  o'  funny,  an'  Ah'll  was  goin'  toP  you  dat 
story.  Don't  you  'fred,  'cause  he  can'  on'stan' 
what  Ah'll  said.  I  am  now  telling  the  old  Bos- 
tonais  what  a  terrible  fighter  you  are,"  Antoine 
said  in  French  to  his  brother-in-law,  who  thereat 
swelled  out  his  chest  to  its  utmost  extent  and 
looked  exceedingly  fierce,  as  he  filled  his  pipe  and 
savagely  smote  a  flint  with  a  curved  steel,  shower- 
ing sparks  upon  a  bit  of  punk  that  served  him  in- 
stead of  matches  for  lighting  his  tobacco.  An- 
toine also  lighted  his  pipe,  though  with  little 
chance  of  keeping  it  in  blast  if  his  story  should  be 
long,  and  Uncle  Lisha,  following  his  example, 
settled  himself  to  comfortable  attention  with  his 
elbows  on  his  knees. 

"Wai,  den,"  the  former  began  between  explo- 
185 


Hunting  Without  a  Gun. 

sive  puffs,  "Ah'll  goin'  toF  you.  You  see,  up  dere 
in  Canada,  w'en  mah  brudder-law  leeve  on  de 
beeg  river,  de  peop'  gat  some  dey  livin'  for  sol' 
hwood  on  stimboat.  Oh,  dey  lot  of  it  go  on  de 
river,  en'  it  took  lot  of  hwood  for  bile  hees  biler. 
De  peop'  sol'  dey  hwood  raght  'long  for  one  dol- 
lar V  half  for  cord,  ev'ry  year,  ev'ry  year  'fore 
bombye  one  man  want  for  sol'  more  hwood  as 
somebody,  so  he  was  toF  de  stimboat  he'll  sol'  it  de 
hwood  for  one  dollar  'n'  quarter,  an'  den  dat  all 
de  stimboat  goin'  give  anybody. 

UA11  de  peop'  was  be  pooty  mad,  but  he  can' 
he'p  hese'f.  Den,  after  'noder  w'ile,  dat  feller, 
Jacques  Boulanger  hees  nem  of  it,  took  notion  he 
chawp  hwood  more  cheaper,  an'  he  do  it  for  jes' 
one  dollar,  an'  den  Ah'll  toF  you,  de  peop'  was 
mad,  an'  oh,  haow  mah  brudder-law  he  was  mad. 
He  say  he  goin'  leek  Jacques. 

"Some  folks  toF  it  he  can'  leek  it,  'cause  Jacques 
more  as  two  tam  bigger  as  he  was.  He  toF  'em 
wait  leetly  w'ile,  dey  see  some  day  w'en  he'll  gat 
drunk  at  Jacques  Boulanger,  den  he  leek  it,  he  ant 
care  if  he  big.  Wai,  it  ant  be  long,  'fore  mah 
brudder-law  have  it  some  w'iskey  en  esprit,  an'  he 
ant  mix  it  very  weak,  an'  he  took  pooty  good  drink 
an'  he  took  it  pooty  often,  an'  he'll  gat  drunk  at 
Jacques  Boulanger. 

186 


A  Brother-in-law  of  Antoine* 

uNaow,  you  see  his  Ian'  an'  Jacques'  Ian*  stan' 
close  apart,  jes'  leetly  brook  run  'tween  it  in  bot- 
tom of  holler.  Jacques'  hwood  behin'  it  one  side 
an'  mah  brudder-law  hees  hwood  on  tudder  side. 

"Mah  brudder-law  look  over  de  brook,  he'll  see 
Jacques  walkin'  aout  wid  hees  ax  for  go  chawp 
an'  dat  mek  him  some  madder,  so  he  go  aout  an' 
holler  some  swear  at  him,  an'  Jacques  hear  it  an' 
holler  back  some  swear,  too. 

uSomebody  hear  bose  of  it,  an'  de  story  go  dat 
Jules  was  gat  drunk  at  Jacques,  an'  was  begin  for 
leek  it,  an'  den  lot  of  de  folks  come  for  see  de 
faght,  but  all  stan'  back  so  not  for  get  hurt,  bose 
side  de  holler  behin'  Jules  an'  Jacques,  an'  dey  was 
'baout  twenty  rod  one  nudder,  prob'ly. 

"Den  mah  brudder-law  holler  some  more 
laouder  an'  Jacques  holler  back  more  laouder,  too, 
an'  de  echo  behin'  bose  of  it  holler,  too,  so  if  dey 
was  ten  mans  on  de  hwood.  Den  mah  brudder- 
law  trow  hees  cap  an'  jomp  on  it  awful  hugly,  an' 
Jacques  he  paoun'  hees  breas'  of  it  wid  hees  fis'  an^ 
say  he  big  man,  more  strong  anybody. 

"Den  mah  brudder-law  call  him  dam  hoi'  hog 
an'  jackasses  an'  bete  puante,  dat's  skonk,  an1  great 
many  kan  o'  t'ing  an'  haow  easy  he  can  leek  it. 

"Den  dat  Jacques  pull  off  some  hees  hairs  an' 
say  he  can  heat  mah  brudder-law,  an'  den  mah 

187 


Hunting  Without  a   Gun. 

brudder-law  HP  hese'f  by  hees  traowser  an'  holler, 
'Brooo,'  an'  echo  come  back,  'Brooo,'  pooty  hugly, 
Ah  toP  you,  raght  behin'  Jacques,  so  de  peop'  be- 
gin for  be  scare  some,  an'  Jacques,  too. 

"Den  mah  brudder-law  drink  big  drink  off  hees 
bottle  an'  gat  more  drunker  at  Jacques,  an'  more 
madder  at  it,  an'  he  hopen  hees  maout  for  mek  de 
wors'  holler  he'll  make  yet.  Bah  gosh  he  hopen 
it  so  wide  de  folks  behin'  see  it  comin'  raoun'  hees 
head  of  it  an'  tink  it  goin'  for  crack  off,  an'  w'en 
Jacques  see  it  raght  biffore,  he  t'ink  prob'ly  mah 
brudder-law  goin'  for  swaller  it,  an'  he  start  for 
run,  an'  w'en  de  peop'  over  dar  see  dat  big  Jacques 
run  dey  t'ink  it  'baout  tarn  for  go,  too. 

"Den  mah  brudder-law  mek  so  awfly  roar  you 
never  hear.  Oh,  it  shake  all  de  hwood  for  mile, 
an'  w'en  de  echo  come  back  more  laouder  an'  more 
of  it  'Brrooo,  brooo,  brooo,' mah  brudder-law  t'ink 
de  dev'  an'  forty  loups  gareau  comin'  aout  de 
hwood  at  him,  so  he'll  jes'  turn  hese'f  raoun'  an' 
run  fas'  he  can,  'cause  he  ant  come  dar  for  -faght 
all  dat  hell  t'ing,  honly  jes'  man,  he  gat  leek 
already. 

"Naow  de  peop'  behin'  it,  see  he'll  runnin',  dey 
knew  it  was  danger  for  dem  an'  dey'll  ant  wait  for 
see  no  more,  but  jes'  run  so  dey  never  was  afore. 
An'  one  hwoman  she  faint  'way  off  so  dey  mos' 

188 


A  Brother-in-law  of  Antoine. 

can'  brought  it  back.    So  you  see  it  was  pooty  scary 
tarn. 

"Wai,  seh,  mah  brudder-law  ant  run  great  way 
'fore  soon  he  slip  hees  foot  an'  tumble,  flop,  right 
in  leetly  holler  full  o'  leaves,  an'  he  ant  hear  no 
more  nowse,  so  he  ant  want  for  got  up.  Mebby 
he  can'  prob'ly,  so  he  jes'  lay  still  an'  go  sleep  all 
de  res'  dat  day. 

"Dat  big  Jacques  Boulanger,  he  fall,  too,  w'en 
he  runnin',  an'  chawp  hese'f  on  hees  ax  so  he  can' 
chawp  no  more  hwood  for  tree  mont',  an'  dat 
broke  up  de  cheap  chawpin',  so  de  peop'  got  dol- 
lar 'n'  half  for  cord  ag'in,  an'  Ah  toP  you  dey  was 
t'ink  plenty  of  my  brudder-law.  Ant  you  t'ink 
he'll  do  grea'  deal  good  for  jes'  leek  one  man  so, 
hard,  hein?" 

"Sartainly,"  said  Uncle  Lisha.  "Sartainly,  and 
at  the  same  time  not  hurt  no  one." 

"Wai,  naow,"  said  Antoine,  after  getting  his 
neglected  pipe  in  full  blast,  "Ah'll  goin'  took  mah 
brudder-law  down  on  de  village,  for  show  it  de 
forge.  He'll  ant  never  see  it  w'en  it  goin'.  They 
ant  gat  it  where  he  live." 

So  the  two  departed,  mingling  the  odor  of  their 
rank  tobacco  with  the  sweet  scent  of  the  blooming 
clover,  and  their  gabble  with  the  voices  of  the  re- 
joicing bobolinks. 

189 


ANTOINE   ON  THE   RAIL. 


EAR  the  close  of  a  September 
day  several  of  the  frequenters 
of  Uncle  Lisha's  shop  were 
gathered  there,  not  lounging 
in  their  usual  ease,  but  stirred 
by  an  air  of  expectancy  which 
was  explained  when  Solon  Briggs  entered  and  de- 
manded: uWal,  what  be  you  all  a-settin'  here  in 
solemn  concave  for?"  and  Uncle  Lisha  answered: 
uWal,  ye  see,  Ann  Twine's  got  hum  from  his 
hayin'  taower  daown  tu  the  lake,  and  they  say 
V  th'  critter  actually  rid  on  that  'ere  railroad  they 
been  a-makin',  leastways  he  says  he  did,  an'  we 
want  to  hear  him  tell  on  't.  He'll  be  up  here  tu 
rights,  full  on  't  an'  bilin'  over.  I  don't  see  what's 
a-henderin'  on  him." 

He  arose  and  stooped  to  the  low,  long  window, 
and  slowly  searched  the  road  through  the  least 
dusty  and  least  wrinkled  pane.  "I  can't  see 
nothin'  on  him,"  he  reported,  sitting  down  on  his 
bench  and  fumbling  among  his  tools  with  a  show 
of  busying  himself. 

190 


Antoine   on    the  Rail. 

"A  watched  pot  won't  never  b'ile,"  Sam  Lovel 
said;  "you  don't  want  to  be  a-lookin'  for  him." 

"I  don't  s'pose  it  r'a'ly  makes  much  odds 
whether  no  we  hear  him  tell  on  't,  or  guess  at  it; 
Ann  Twine  does  tell  seeh  almighty  yarns,"  said 
Uncle  Lisha,  "but  most  likely  he's  seen  the 
consarn,  an'  we'll  git  some  idea  o'  the  looks  on  't 
by  his  tellin'." 

"It  don't  sca'cely  seem  's  'ough  I'd  much  livser 
resk  myself  on  the  pleggy  thing  'n  I  would  in  a 
boat,"  said  Joseph  Hill,  and  added  after  some 
consideration,  "but  then  if  you  fell  off'm  on  't  you 
wouldn't  draound,  an'  I  don't  s'pose  the's  no 
danger  of'm  sinking',  an'  they  don't  hafter  be 
oared.  I  wonder  what  does  make  'em  go, 
anyway." 

"Why,  you  see,  the  b'ilin'  water  covaporates 
into  steam,"  Solon  explained,  "which  the  steam 
causes  the  wheels  to  devolve,  sim'lar  tu  a  waggin, 
an'  it  nat'rally  follers  the  hul  thing  hes  got  tu  go. 
Watts  invented  it  one  time  when  he  sot  by  the 
stove  discomposin'  of  a  hyme,  an'  the  tea  kittle 
b'iled  over.  The'  was  a  piece  cum  in  the  paper 
abaout  it." 

"You  see  haow  't  is,  don't  ye,  Jozeff?"  Sam 
asked.  "Seems  most  as  if  you  could  go  right  tu 
work  an'  make  one,  don't  it?" 

191 


Hunting  Without  a   Gun. 

"They  du  say  't  you  can  see  the  steam  on't  from 
the  top  o'  Tater  Hill,  a-skivin'  along  ju'  like  the 
smoke  of  a  chimbly  dragged  ag'in  the  wind  by  the 
small  eend,"  said  Pelatiah  Gove,  slowly  ruminat- 
ing his  cud  of  spruce  gum. 

"Folks  '11  be  a-flyin'  next,"  Tom  Hamlin 
predicted. 

"They  hev  done  that  already  heretobefore," 
said  Solon,  "them  airy  knots  in  the  berloons." 

"I  tell  ye,  I  b'lieve  the  world's  a-comin'  tu  an 
eend  'fore  long,"  said  Timothy  Lovel,  his  serious 
face  almost  expressing  alarm.  "You  know  it  tells 
'n  the  Bible  the'll  be  much  goin'  tu  an'  fro  on  the 
airth  for  one  sign." 

"Sam  Hill!"  Joseph  ejaculated  with  unusual 
earnestness,  "if  it's  got  tu  this  year  it  most  seems 
'ough  I'd  jes'  's  lives  hev  it  come  afore  'tater  dig- 
gin'  as  just  arter.  But  I  don't  s'pose  M'ri'  'd  be 
satisfied  if  she  didn't  git  all  done  haouse  cleanin' 
fust.  Hello!  I  b'lieve  that  'ere's  Antoine 
a-comin',"  and  presently  the  Canadian  entered 
with  modest  consciousness  of  his  importance  as  a 
distinguished  adventurer,  yet  greeting  his  friends 
with  accustomed  "Hello,  One'  Lasha,  an'  all  de 
boy,  haow  ye  was,  tout  la  companie?" 

There  was  a  cordial  response,  and  after  shaking 

hands  with  everyone  he  seated  himself  and  made 

192 


Antoine   on    the  Rail. 

a  comprehensive  survey  of  the  company,  while 
he  was  the  object  of  a  close  scrutiny. 

"Wai,  sah,  boy,  Ah'll  ant  see  but  you  was  all 
look  natchel,"  he  declared,  when  he  had  completed 
the  inspection,  and  his  eyes  again  dwelt  on  Uncle 
Lisha. 

uBah  gosh,  One'  Lasha,  you'll  ant  get  more 
hoi'  you  was  w'en  Ah'll  go  'way!"  which  was  in- 
deed remarkable,  since  Antoine  had  been  absent 
a  whole  month. 

"Wai,  I  do'  know  but  what  I've  kep'  up  my 
row  toFable  well,"  the  old  man  admitted.  "An' 
you  b'en  pooty  tough,  hev  ye,  Ann  Twine?  An' 
fetched  hum  yer  pockets  all  full  o'  money,  I 
s'pose!" 

"Wai,  Ah'll  ant  goin'  bought  all  of  Danvit 
jes  yet,  only  half  of  it,  Ah  guess,  prob'ly,"  said 
Antoine,  making  conspicuous  use  of  a  brand  new 
red  and  yellowT  cotton  handkerchief. 

"We  heard  'at  you'd  be'n  a-buyin'  some  o'  that 
'ere  new  railroad." 

"Oh,  dat  ant  so,  One'  Lasha,"  Antoine  an- 
nounced, "but  Ah'll  was  see  lot  of  it,  an'  seh,  Ah'll 
r-r-rode  on  it,  bah  gosh !  Yes,  seh,  Ah'll  r-r-rode 
on  it,  me!" 

At  this  there  was  a  general  pricking  of  ears, 
and  each  settled  himself  more  comfortably  to  give 

193 


Hunting  Without  a  Gun. 

undivided  attention  while  Antoine  deliberated  how 
to  begin  the  relation  of  his  adventures;  he  filled 
and  lighted  his  pipe. 

"W'en  fust  Ah'll  see  dat  rail  roll  goin',  an'  hear 
all  hees  nowse,  Ah  ant  t'ink  Ah'll  rode  on  him, 
for  hees  mos'  more  worse  he  look,  so  hugly,  an'  he 
roar  an'  holler  more  hugly  as  he  look.  But  bum 
bye  Ah'll  gat  use  of  it,  for  see  it  ev'ry  day  where 
Ah'll  work  on  de  hayin'  an'  ant  be  so  'fraid. 

"More  as  dat,  Ah'll  see  Airishmans,  more  as 
forty,  rode  on  de  woggin  behin'  of  it  for  to  sow 
gravel  on  top  de  rail  roll,  and'  he'll  ant  keel  it,  an' 
Ah'll  t'ink  'f  he  ant  keel  dat  Airishmans  dat  was 
better  for  be  keel  as  mos'  anybody,  Ah  guess,  me, 
he  ant  prob'ly  keel  one  Franchman  dat  was  bes' 
for  be  save ! 

"So  w'en  Ah'll  gat  hayin'  all  do1,  Ah'll  mek  off 
mah  min'  Ah'll  goin'  rode  on  dat  rail  roll,  so-  Ah'll 
be  able  for  toF  all  'bout  it  'f  Ah  live. 

"Wai,  seh,  Ah'll  go  on  de  deeple — dat  de  place 
w'ere  rail  roll  stop  for  you  git  on — an'  Ah'll 
bought  tickle — jes'  same  for  show — fifty  cen' 
Ah'll  pay — den  Ah'll  go  on  de  w'arf  an'  walk 
raoun'  jus'  sem  'f  Ah  don'  care  no  more  for  rail 
roll  as  'f  he  was  leetely  w'eel-barrel. 

"But  Ah  toF  you  bum  bye  w'en  Ah'll  see  him 

comin'  an'  look  jus'  'f  he  was  goin'  run  raght  top 

194 


Antoine   on    the  Rail. 

of  me,  an'  holler  'whoop  I  whoop!'  an'  rung  hees 
bell  lak  meetin'  haouse,  an'  smoke  lak  coal  pit,  an' 
bile  'f  he  was  goin'  bus'  off  hees  cover,  'spe-e-e-e!' 
bah  gosh;  Ah'll  willin'  for  sol'  mah  tickle  for 
twenty-fiv'  cen',  an'  Ah'll  run  in  de  deeple  an'  peek 
aout  de  door  till  dat  rail  roll  stan'  still  an'  de  cap- 
t'in  come  on  de  w'arf  an'  holler  'All  'board!' 

uDen  de  deeple  man  push  me  an'  toP  me  'jomp 
on !'  an'  Ah'll  run  fas'  for  clamb  on  de  hwood  pile 
behin'  de  injun,  an'  deeple  man  holler  'jomp  on  de 
cart,'  an'  de  capt'in  mek  motion  wid  hees  han'  an' 
Ah  run,  run  w'ere  he  was,  an'  he  push  me  up  de 
stair  on  de  canawl  boat  dey  call  cart,  an'  mos'  'fore 
Ah'll  got  hopen  de  door  de  rail  roll  begin  for  rung 
hees  bell  sem  'f  meetin's  all  ready,  an'  he  beegin 
cough — 'ugh,  ugh!' — an'  dat  canawl  boat  jomp 
so  Ah'll  go  in  on  mah  all  four,  an'  de  folks  laught 
so  Ah'll  pooty  shem,  Ah  toP  you.  Ah'll  ant  lef 
mahself  dar  long  'fore  Ah'll  peek  it  up,  an'  set  on 
fus'  seat  Ah  can. 

"It  was  all  cushi'n  harm  chair  for  two  folks, 
two  row  of  it,  wid  road  between  of  it,  an'  all  jes' 
nice  he  can  be,  winder  all  'long  de  side  an'  one  on 
de  en'  mos'  lak  One'  Lasha  is,  honly  it  gat  but  jus' 
one — ah — feel  bad." 

"One  what?"  Uncle  Lisha  asked. 

"Why,  w'at  you  call  it,  one  piece  glass — ache?" 
i95 


Hunting  Without  a  Gun. 

"Oh,  good  airth  an'  seas,  pane!"  Uncle  Lisha 
shouted. 

uYas,  dat  jus'  de  sem,  Ah'll  said,"  Antoine  said, 
with  the  utmost  complacency,  and  improving  the 
interruption  of  his  story  to  light  his  pipe. 

"Wai,  sah,  pooty  soon  dat  rail  roll  stop  for 
cough  an'  go  more  fas'  an'  fas',  mos'  lak  litlin', 
an'  Ah'll  t'ink  he  said  all  de  tarn  cHo,  you  ant 
know  where  you  was  go,'  an'  mah  heart  mek 
answer  inside  of  me,  'Ah  b'lieve  dat  so,  Ah  wish 
you  go  a  lit'  more  slow.' 

"An'  w'en  Ah'll  see  all  de  tree  run  race,  an'  de 
fence  streak  lak  ribbin  in  de  win',  bah  gosh,  Ah'll 
was  mos'  scare  an'  wish  Ah'll  ant  come,  but  Ah'll 
hang  on  de  seat  lak  good  feller,  Ah  tol'  you.  Den 
Ah'll  look  see  if  de  odder  folks  was  scare,  but 
some  of  it  was  talkin'.  Ah'll  can'  heard  it,  honly 
see  hees  mout'  go,  an'  some  of  it  was  read  on  de 
paper,  an'  one  hoi'  hwomans  was  heat  off  hees 
baskit  all  de  tam,  an'  Ah'll  t'ink  if  dey  ant  scare 
Ah'll  ant  scare,  too. 

"Den  Ah'll  look  in  dat  leetly  winder  Ah'll  tol' 
you  baout,  an'  dar  was  lot  more  folkses  in  dar; 
some  of  it  read  on  de  paper,  some  of  it  talkin'  an' 
'nudder  hoi'  hwomans  heatin'  off  hees  baskit  all  de 
tam,  an'  dar  was  one  mans  look  lak  Frenchman, 
an'  he  was  look  so  hard  at  me  Ah'll  mek  bow  at 


Antoine   on    the  Rail. 

him,  an'  he  mek  bow  at  me.  Den  Ah'll  grin  at  it 
kan  o'  pleasant,  an'  he  do  jus'  de  sem.  Den  Ah'll 
blow  mah  nose  of  mah  new  hampercher,  an',  bah 
gosh,  he  was  pull  one  jus'  lak  it  for  blew  his  nose ! 
Dat  mek  me  beegin  for  be  mad,  have  mek  fun  at 
me,  an'  Ah'll  look  pooty  hugly  at  dat  feller  Ah'll 
tol'  you,  an'  he  look  jus'  so  hugly  to  me ! 

"Ah'll  shake  mah  fis'  to  him,  an'  he  was  shook 
hees  fis'  to  me,  and,  bah  gosh,  Ah'll  was  be  mad 
for  leek  it,  Ah  tol'  you.  Ah'll  t'row  mah  hat, 
Ah'll  jomp  on  it,  Ah'll  pull  mah  hairs,  Ah'll  holler 
grea'  deal  swore,  an'  dat  feller  do  jus'  sem  lak  me, 
an'  bose  of  it  faght  so  hard  dat  way  lak  hoi'  t'under 
more  as  fav  minute;  an',  seh,  dem  folkses  ant 
scare  't  all.  but  dey  was  laught  lak  ev'ryt'ing,  an' 
den  Ah'll  stop  for  gat  mah  breeze,  an'  den,  seh, 
w'at  you  t'ink  Ah'll  fan'  aout.  Wai,  seh,  dat  win- 
der ant  not'ing  but  lookin'  glass,  an'  Ah'll  be'n 
was'e  all  dat  faght  on  mahself,  Ah'll  ant  tarn  for 
be  shem  'fore  de  capt'in  come  in  de  sloop  an'  hol- 
ler 'Vairgenn !  Vairgenn !'  and  den  de  rail  roll 
holler  'Yooloop !  yoop !'  an'  beegin  for  go  slow, 
an'  w'en  he  mos'  stop  Ah'll  scrabble  for  de  door, 
an'  den  he  stop  quick  (r-r-roop!'  An'  Ah'll  go  on 
all  mah  four  'g'in,  jus'  sem  Ah  come  in — so  Ah'll 
go  aout,  an'  mos'  'fore  Ah'll  gat  on  de  w'arf  de 
capt'in  holler  'All  'board!'  an'  de  rail  roll  ring 

197 


Hunting  Without  a   Gun. 

hees  bell  an'  beegin  for  cough,  an'  nex'  Ah'll  see 
Ah'll  ant  see  it,  honly  de  smoke  an'  de  nowse  of 
it,  sayin',  'Got  your  money !  Half  a  dollar !  Got 
your  money!  Half  a  dollar!'  but  Ah  ant  care  'f 
he  was,  Ah'll  gat  mah  wort'  of  it." 

"Wai,  I  don't  be'lieve  I  want  tu  resk  myself  on 
the  'tarnal  contraption,"  Uncle  Lisha  declared. 

"It  don't  sca'cely  seem  's  'ough  I  would,  any- 
ways, erless  they'd  'gree  to  go  slow,  an'  stop  an' 
le'  me  git  off  when  I  wanted  tu,"  said  Joseph. 

"Look  a-here,  Ann  Twine,"  said  Uncle  Lisha, 
rising  and  going  to  the  door  of  the  kitchen,  "you 
go  in  an'  tell  the  women  folks  'bout  it,  if  you'd 
jest  as  livs,  for  I  know  they're  dyin'  tu  hear  on  't." 

Antoine  was  not  loth  to  comply,  and  the  old 
man,  closing  the  door  for  a  moment  behind  him, 
whispered  gustily  to  the  company,  "I'll  go  'long 
in  an'  see  if  he  tells  his  story  twicte  alike." 


198 


ANTOINE  SUGARING. 


IS  sprim  Ah  was  took  on  share 
de  hoi'  One'  Lasha  sugar  place. 
Ah'll  took  of  Joel  Bahtlett 
sonny-law  what  hown  Joel  hees 
farm,  'cause  Joel  ant  had  no 
son  'cep'  one  gal,  hees  sonny- 
law  marry  of  some  tarn  ago. 

He'll  furnishin'  noting  but  de  tree  and  de 
hwood.  Ah'll  furnishin'  all  de  res',  de  spout,  de 
sap  buckle,  de  bilin'  kittly,  an'  de  man,  dat  was 
de  bes'. 

Ah  was  goin'  try  for  mek  some  hones'  wagein's 
an'  not  have  mah  half  be  too  smaller  as  hees. 

Ah  t'ink  he  was  be  fair  'f  Ah  have  half,  an' 
Ursule,  he'll  help  it  carry  sap  sometam,  have  half, 
an'  den  Joel  sonny-law,  hees  nem  John  Orvit,  fan' 
hees  half  where  he  could,  hein? 

Ah'll  ant  gat  no  sugar  haouse,  only  jes'  shanky, 
sem  One'  Lasha  had,  an'  Ah'll  ant  had  no  sapora- 
tor  or  covaporator,  Ah  do'  know  haow  he  call  it, 
come  sap  in  one  en'  an'  sugar  in  tudder. 

199 


Hunting   Without   a   Gun. 

Only  jes'  hoi'  fashi'n  pot-ashins  kittly,  hang  on 
pole  balant  on  big  stump  for  swung  off  fire  sem  as 
you  want  it. 

Sometam  dey  be  big  run,  Ah  was  bilin'  all 
naght,  put  on  de  hwood  all  de  tarn  mos',  an'  mek 
de  sap  "fluff"  for  mos'  bile  over,  honly  littly 
chunk  porks  was  stop  it. 

Dat  was  de  way  for  mek  good  maply  sugar,  all 
de  chip  an'  bark  an'  moss  was  drop  in,  it  not  be 
strain  off. 

Den,  w'en  you'll  tase  it,  you  know  you'll  gat 
maply  sugar.  W'en  you'll  buy  maply  sugar,  you'll 
ant  want  loafer  sugar,  ant  it? 

W'en  Ah'll  be  bile  so,  Ah'll  gat  lonesick  some- 
tarn,  noboddy  come  see  me  but  mah  chillen,  an' 
Ah'll  ant  got  no  more  as  fourteen,  Ah  b'lieve. 

It  mek  me  t'ink  of  hoi'  tarn  w'en  One'  Lasha, 
Solem  Brigg,  Sam  Lovit,  an'  all  of  it  use  for  come, 
an'  Ah  weesh  he  come  naow. 

Ah  hear  of  folks  talk  for  took  hees  hwomens 
campin'  Ah'll  ant  b'lieve  it,  an'  Ah  ant  want  it 
dey  brought  dey  waf. 

When  mans  goin'  campin'  he'll  go  for  res'.  He 
ant  want  hees  hwoman,  jus'  w'en  he'll  beegin  shut 
hees  heye  an'  go  sleep,  he  ant  want  his  waf  ponch 
heem  in  hees  side  of  it  wid  helbow,  an'  say,  uAh 
guess  we  better  papy  de  square  room  dis  sprim," 

200 


Antoine  Sugaring. 

or,  "Ah'll  gat  for  have  some  bunnit  so  good  as 
Mees  dis  one,  dat  one,  he'll  gat." 

Ah'll  ant  want  Mees  Hudly  Sam  Lovit,  Mees 
Brigg  an'  all  of  it  sat  up  an'  oversee  it  mah 
cookin'  an'  say,  uAh  b'lieve  dat  sugar  done,"  uAh 
b'lieve  it  burnin',"  or  if  Ah  mek  some  odder 
cookin'  steek  up  hees  nose  of  it  an'  said,  uDat  was 
jes'  what  you'll  spec  of  dese  mans." 

Ah  b'lieve  for  hwomans  cook  to  home,  an'  Ah'll 
ant  faound  no  faults  'f  he  suit  me;  'f  he  ant,  dat 
vas  mah  privilege,  don't  it? 

If  hwomans  want  for  have  some  funs,  let  it 
weed  onion,  dat  was  funs  'nough. 

If  dat  ant  'nough,  let  it  go  vis'tin'  long  to  some 
odder  hwoman's,  an'  'f  he  ant  have  funs,  dey  ant 
no  funs  in  talkin'.  All  de  biscuit  an'  sasses  dey 
heat  can'  stop  de  nowse  of  hees  talkin',  w'en  he'll 
gat  on  some  good  vis'tin'. 

Mos'  mek  me  t'ink  of  it  was  big  flock  blackbird 
come  in  tops  of  maply  an'  beegin  holler,  honly 
blackbird  saound  more  lak  lot  o'  gal  as  hoi'  sass- 
heatin'  hwomans.  De  hwomans  saound  more  lak 
forty  crow  w'en  he'll  fan'  nowl  or  foxes. 

W'en  Ah  was  young  not'ing  please  me  but  de 
nowse  of  de  blackbirds,  naow  Ah  lak  as  well  de 
crow  nowse,  but  Ah'll  ant  want  hear  it  all  de  tarn. 

But  mah  hoi'  frien'  ant  come  very  often  lak  he 

201 


Hunting  Without  a   Gun. 

was  w'en  One'  Lasha  mek  some  sugar  off.  Some 
of  it  gat  too  many  hoi'  an'  too  many  rheumatiz 
for  go  aout  in  de  evelin. 

Some  of  it  gat  de  grass  grow  top  of  it  for  great 
many  year. 

An'  it  mek  me  lonesick  for  sit  lone  by  mah  fire 
an'  smoked  mah  pipe,  an'  hear  honly  de  haowl 
hoot  an'  de  fox  barkin'  way  off  on  de  hwood.  All 
de  hoi'  tarn  come  back  of  mah  mind  an'  Ah  felt 
sorry  all  de  boy  ant  here,  or  Ah  ant  gone  'long 
wid  mos'  all  of  it. 

But  if  dey  was  here  dey  heat  mah  sugar.  'F 
Ah  was  dere  Ah  can'  git  some  sugar,  prob'ly,  so 
Ah  guess  it  was  de  bes'  as  he  was. 

Sometam  Ah'll  try  for  feel  better  for  sing  some 
hoi'  French  song  on  de  top  of  mah  voice,  uLa 
Glaire  Fontaine,"  uRoulant  ma  Boule": 

"Rouli,  roulant,  ma  boule  roulant, 
En  roulant  ma  boule  roulant, 
En  roulant  ma  boule." 

Sometam  Ah  sing  de  song  of  Papineau,  but  de 
hecho  come  from  de  maountain  lak  some  voice 
from  Canada  w'en  Ah'll  was  boy,  'fore  Ah  mos' 
spilt  mah  bloods  in  de  Papineau  war,  an'  mek  me 
more  lonesick  Ah'll  was  'fore.  Sem  lak  hoi'  song 
say,  "Ah'll  never  ant  freegit." 

202 


Antotne  Sugaring. 

One  naght  Ah  gat  mah  fire  fix  up  good  an'  de 
kittly  ant  want  much  watch. 

So  Ah'll  put  six  hegg  in  it  for  bile  mah 
luncheons  bpmby,  an'  Ah'll  lit  mah  pipe  an'  sect 
back  in  de  shanky  for  comfortably  visit  long  to 
mahse'f. 

It  was  so  steel  Ah  can'  hear  not'ing  but  de  fire 
snappin'  an'  de  sap  floppin'  in  de  kittly,  and  dat 
was  nowse  ant  'sturb  me  so  Ah  gat  good  chance 
for  t'ink  baout  all  M'sieu  Mumpsin  read  in  de 
papier,  w'en  Ah  chawpin'  hees  hwoodpile  off,  an' 
Ah'll  stay  all  naght. 

Some  mans  in  it  tell  haow  much  he  gat  or  ant 
gat,  Ah  do'  know,  for  so  many  shoot  of  hees 
gawn. 

Ah  b'lieve  Ah  can  beat  it  anyway. 

One  tarn  Ah'll  took  mah  hoi'  G.  S.  R.  Tower 
dat  was  already  load  up,  an'  took  mah  paowders 
an'  mah  waddin'  dat  was  waspbee  nes'  dat  tarn, 
an'  evree  t'ing  prob'ly  dat  was  necessity. 

Wai,  seh,  Ah  go  for  hunt  some  patteraige  an' 
Ah  go  prob'ly  two  nhour  'fore  Ah'll  see  one,  an' 
he  was  skulk  in  some  berree  bush  so  Ah'll  mos' 
can'  gat  sight  of  it.  But  Ah'll  t'ink  Ah'll  gat 
'nough  an'  Ah  shot.  "Whish!  Boom!"  Ah'll 
mow  road  in  de  bush,  but  dat  patteraige  "vroop!" 
he  go  safe. 

203 


Hunting  Without  a   Gun. 

Ah'll  was  sup-prise,  for  Ah  know  what  kan'  o' 
man  Ah  was  for  shot,  an'  Ah  know  what  kan'  o' 
gun  G.  S.  R.  Tower  was  for  shot.  Ah'll  was  sup- 
prise,  but  Ah'll  an'  discourage. 

Ah  beegin  for  load  agin,  put  on  mah  paowders, 
put  on  mah  wad,  paoun'  heem  daown  hard  wid 
hoi'  iron  rammy  rod,  den  feel  mah  pocket  for  mah 
bag-shot,  fus  dis  pocket,  den  dat  pocket,  den  all  of 
it,  an'  he  ant  dare.  Den,  bah  gosh,  it  beegin  creep 
on  me,  Ah'll  freegit  dat  bag-shot! 

Wall,  seh,  Ah  was  so  mad  Ah  put  in  some  leetly 
stone,  an'  Ah'll  ant  go  far  'fore  Ah'll  see  patter- 
aige  set  on  limb,  an'  Ah'll  blaze  'way  of  it. 
"Vroop!"  he  go  safe. 

Ah'll  load  sem  way  'gin,  fav,  seex  tarn,  an'  shot 
jes'  so  many  tarn  all  at  fair  mark  of  patteraige,  an' 
Ah'll  ant  keel  one  of  it. 

Den  Ah'll  go  home  an'  prob'ly  Ah'll  was  mad, 
hein?  Seven  shot  an'  ant  got  sometings  evree  tarn. 

Dat  was  one  tarn. 

Tudder  tarn  was  great  many  while  ago,  w'en 
dare  was  come  pigeon  in  Danvit  for  nes'  one 
sprim.  W'en  he'll  flew  off  an'  back,  de  sky  was 
cloud  of  it  so  de  sun  ant  shine. 

Ah'll  had  mah  hoi'  G.  S.  R.  Tower  all  prepare, 
half  full  of  load,  an'  Ah  run  off  in  de  lot  by  de 
aidge  of  hwood  w'en  Ah'll  see  de  biggest  flew  come 

204 


Antoine  Sugaring. 

over,  an'  dey  mek  it  so  dark  Ah  can'  see  mah  gawn 
saght,  but  Ah'll  pant  up  where  he  was  prob'ly  ten 
rod  t'ick  an'  Ah'll  pull  off  de  triggin  an'  de  gawn 
roar  off  an'  ponch  me  in  de  graoun  up  of  mah 
ankle. 

Den  de  pigeon  beegin  for  rain  top  of  me,  more 
of  it,  more  of  it,  up  to  mah  knee,  mah  wais,  mah 
neck,  an'  Ah'll  beegin  to  climb  aout  of  dat  pile 
pigeon. 

Wen  Ah  look  of  de  flock  Ah  can  see  de  hole 
Ah  mek  in  it  goin'  long  in  de  sky,  an'  spot  of  sun- 
shine goin'  long  under  it  cross  de  fiel'.  Dat  was 
one  shot. 

Everee  boddee  in  Danvit  had  pigeon  pot-pie  for 
two  week. 

Oh,  bah  gosh !  Dat  hegg  gat  bile  so  hard  Ah'll 
mos'  can'  bit  it,  Ah'll  'fraid. 


205 


THE  GRAY   PINE.* 
I. 


IKE  most  of  those  who  have  in- 
herited the  hunting  instinct  of 
our  progenitors  and  were  born 
where  no  large  game  exists,  it 
was  once  my  great  ambition  to 
kill  a  deer.  It  had  been  out- 
lived, not  gratified,  for  though  year  after  year  I 
went  to  the  Adirondacks  for  this  sole  purpose,  it 
was  never  my  fortune  to  kill  a  deer,  nor  but  once 
to  even  get  a  shot  at  one.  If  one  was  started  it 
always  took  any  runway  rather  than  that  on  which 
I  was  stationed,  or  went  over  the  mountains  to 
some  pond  or  stream  miles  away,  and  so  escaped 
or  fell  a  prey  to  the  hunters  of  some  other  party. 
My  last  attempt  was  made  late  in  October,  1855, 
when,  though  we  were  enjoying  the  most  delight- 
ful autumn  weather  in  the  Champlain  Valley,  there 
were  sharp  premonitions  of  approaching  winter  in 
the  narrow  valley  of  the  Adirondacks  which  was  this 
year  to  be  my  hunting  ground.  The  deciduous 
trees  had  struck  their  colors,  and  the  faded  ban- 

*See  Bulletin  of  the  Essex  Institute,  Vol.  XIII.,  1881, 


The  Gray  Pine. 

ners  of  scarlet  and  purple  and  gold  were  trailing 
upon  the  earth,  sodden  with  autumnal  rains,  or 
tossed  here  and  there  by  fitful  gusts  of  the  shifting 
winds;  and  more  than  one  snow  storm  had  griz- 
zled the  "black  growth"  of  the  mountain 
sides  and  blanched  the  treeless  peaks  with  the 
whiteness  they  wrere  to  wear  for  many  a  month  to 
come. 

The  night  after  my  arrival  at  the  little  farm- 
house where  I  was  to  stay,  several  of  the  neighbors 
dropped  in,  and  a  hunt  was  planned  for  the  next 
day.  Sim  Woodruff,  the  most  inveterate  woods- 
haunter  and  hunter  among  them,  drawled  out  in  a 
low  monotone :  "The's  tew  three  deer  a-keep- 
ing  up  in  the  basin  'n  under  Aowl's  Head,  they 
ha'n't  been  mislested  this  fall,  V  the'  ha'  no 
daoubt  o'  startin'  on  'em  any  day,  'n'  gittin'  a  good 
race.  They'll  water  tu  the  river,  sartin,  'n  we  c'n 
man  every  identicle  runway,  'n'  someb'dy  nuther 
is  cock  sure  to  git  a  shot." 

Silas  Borden  the  shoemaker  said,  "  'T'ain't  no 
way  sartin  'at  a  deer  started  aouten  the  basin  won't 
water  t'  Thompson  Pawnd."  He  spent  more  of 
his  time  in  fishing  and  ua-studyin'  inter  aoudoor 
things"  than  in  making  and  mending  his  neigh- 
bors' footgear,  and  his  opinion  in  matters  of 
woods-lore  was  not  to  be  lightly  taken,  But  Sim 

207 


Hunting  Without  a   Gun. 

said  sententiously,  "They'll  water  tu  the  river!" 
The  shoemaker  said  no  more  in  support  of  his 
opinion,  but  sat  gazing  meditatively  into  the  glow- 
ing slit  of  the  stove  hearth.  It  was  presently  set- 
tled the  party  should  meet  here  at  Uncle 
Harvey  Hales'  the  next  morning,  and  then  man 
the  runways  on  the  river,  while  Sim  took  the  dogs 
to  the  basin  lying  under  the  rocky  knob,  known  as 
Owl's  Head,  and  put  them  out  there. 

As  my  host  was  lighting  me  to  bed  after  the 
last  caller  had  departed,  I  said,  uDo,  if  you  can, 
Uncle  Harvey,  put  me  on  a  runway  to-morrow 
where  I  can  get  a  shot.  This  is  the  fifth  year  that 
IVe  been  trying  to  get  one  somewhere  in  this 
region,  and  haven't  succeeded  yet!" 

"If  you  don't  get  a  crack  at  a  deer  to-morrah, 
it  won't  be  my  fault,"  he  said  as  he  set  the  candle 
on  the  little  oilcloth  covered  stand  and  seated  him- 
self on  the  edge  of  the  bed.  "I'm  a-goin'  t'  put 
you  t'  the  Riffles,  'n'  it's  the  best  runway  on  the 
river.  The  fif  year,  hey?  Wai,  they  say  't  the's 
luck  in  odd  numbers,  'n'  like  'nough  yourn  'ill 
change  this  time.  'F  you  c'n  shoot  at  a  deer  's  well 
's  you  can  't  a  pa'tridge,  y'r  all  right,  for  I've  seen 
yer  cut  their  heads  off.  But" — and  his  gray  eyes 
twinkled  under  their  grayer  shaggy  brows — "like's 
not  ye  can't — the's  a  differ'nce." 

208 


The  Gray  Pine. 

"Well,"  I  said,  with  more  confidence  in  my 
voice  than  in  my  heart,  uall  I  ask  is  the  chance, 
and  if  I  miss  a  good  shot,  you  won't  be  troubled 
with  me  another  fall." 

"Then  I  hope  you'll  kill  a  deer  to-morrah,"  he 
said  heartily,  "for  Fm  allus  glad  t'  have  ye  come." 
In  those  days  the  region  was  not  thronged  as 
now  with  tourists  and  pleasure-seekers,  and  the 
people  were  glad  of  a  visitor  for  simple  friend- 
ship's sake,  and  a  few  days  of  companionship  with 
one  from  the  outer  world,  of  which  they  saw  so 
little.  Now  and  then,  in  summer,  some  ardent 
angler  from  abroad  braved  the  torments  of  the 
black  flies,  or  an  artist  came  to  gather  fresh 
sheaves  from  an  unreaped  field;  in  fall  a  few 
hunters  and  an  occasional  cattle  buyer  from  the 
valley  of  the  lake,  and  in  winter  a  fur  buyer  or 
two  were  almost  the  only  visitors  in  all  the  year. 

"Wai,"  said  Uncle  Harvey,  rising  and  snuffing 
the  candle  with  his  fingers,  "good  night,  sleep 
good!" 

This  injunction  I  obeyed,  between  Aunt  Nabby's 
dried  roseleaf-scented  sheets  and  under  the  carpet- 
like  coverlet  till  daylight  came  in  at  the  little  win- 
dow and  turned  the  gloom  to  gray,  and  the  voices 
of  the  gathering  hunters  and  the  whimpering  and 
impatient  yelping  of  Sim's  hounds  awoke  me, 

209 


Plunting  Without   a   Gun. 

Half  an  hour  later  when  we  were  straggling  along 
the  road,  someone  asked,  "Where's  Sile?  thought 
he  was  a-goin'."  Sim,  who  led  the  party  and  was 
being  led  by  the  dogs  straining  at  their  leashes 
before  him,  answered  over  his  shoulder,  uSile! 
I'll  bet  a  cookey  the  plegged  critter  's  a-pullin'  foot 
for  Thompson's  Pawnd,"  and  he  looked  toward 
the  round  peak  of  Owl's  Head  now  detaching  its 
dark  gray  outline  from  the  scarcely  lighter  gray 
of  the  overcast  sky,  as  if  he  half  expected  to  make 
out  somewhere  under  the  curtain  of  the  woods  the 
form  of  the  little  shoemaker  breasting  the  moun- 
tain ridge,  beyond  which  lay  the  lonely  pond. 
uLet  him  go  an'  be  darned !  I  shouldn't  wonder 
'f  the  pawnd  was  all  froze  over!"  which  seemed 
not  unlikely,  for  the  road  was  hard  as  a  rock,  and 
the  swift  current  of  the  river  running  here  beside 
it  was  edged  with  bristling  borders  of  ice,  and 
little  spiky  rafts  of  it  were  drifting  along,  tinkling 
against  shores  and  mid-stream  boulders.  One  or 
two  of  the  hunters  had  dropped  out  to  the  run- 
ways they  were  assigned  to,  when  Sim  struck  out 
of  the  road  and  across  the  narrow  fields,  and  soon 
vanished  with  his  hounds  in  the  haze  of  woodside 
saplings  and  branches. 

One  after  another  took  the  station  allotted  to 
him  by  Uncle  Harvey,  till  only  he  and  I  were  left. 

210 


The  Gray  Pine. 

Crossing  a  rude  bridge  that  spanned  the  river,  and 
going  half  a  mile  further  up  the  right  bank  we 
came  to  the  Riffles,  where  he  placed  me,  and  after 
giving  a  few  concise  directions,  went  on  to  his 
stand  above.  Here  at  the  Riffles,  running  down 
a  steep  slope  and  across  the  narrow  interval  to 
the  naked  brink  of  the  river,  was  the  clearing  of  a 
deserted  farm  bordered  on  either  side  with  a 
brushy  fringe  of  second  growth,  backed  by  the 
great  trees  of  the  old  woods.  Half  way  up  the 
slope,  desolate  and  forsaken,  with  no  path  leading 
to  them,  stood  a  small  house  with  unglazed  win- 
dows, and  the  ruins  of  a  log  barn.  My  stand  faced 
a  long  straight  reach  of  the  river  w7here  it  broke 
into  a  foaming  rapid  over  stony  shallows,  running 
nearly  eastward  till  under  the  root-netted  bank  at 
my  feet  it  turned  again  on  its  devious  northward 
course  through  the  valley.  The  old  woods  of 
beech,  maple,  and  birch,  came  down  with  a  sudden 
sweep  from  the  dark  evergreens  of  the  heights, 
and  a  crinkled  seam  in  the  even  gray  of  their  tops 
marked  the  way  of  a  mountain  rivulet  that  just 
opposite  gave  its  small  contribution  of  noise  and 
water  to  the  roar  and  rush  of  the  river.  The  ten- 
antless  farm  was  like  an  unmarked  grave  that  one 
might  come  upon  in  the  heart  of  the  woods,  and 
made  the  place  no  less  "woodsy  and  wild  and  lone- 

211 


Hunting  Without  a  Gun. 

some"  than  if  the  ancient  trees  still  shaded  its  un- 
tilled  acres.  For  a  while  I  was  satisfied  with  the 
sense  of  complete  isolation;  with  listening  to  the 
ever-changing  yet  monotonous  voice  of  the  river 
singing  its  untranslatable  song  to  the  hushed  wil- 
derness; with  looking  at  the  noble  sweep  of  the 
mountain  slopes,  and  the  given  outlines  of  their 
rocky  steeps ;  and  then  with  studying  the  shapes  of 
the  great  yellow  birches  that  bent  their  shining 
and  maned  trunks  steadfast  and  silent  over  the  tur- 
moil of  the  waters  while  the  little  branches  waved 
and  nodded  as  if  beating  time  to  the  river's  song. 
I  noticed  the  near  rocks  mottled  with  many-colored 
lichens  and  mosses  that  kept  foothold  above  the 
well-defined  limit  of  high  water,  and  then  I  sud- 
denly remembered  why  I  was  here,  and  that  Sim 
must  have  the  dogs  out  by  this  time,  and  my  ears 
were  soon  aching  with  the  effort  to  catch,  out  of  the 
river's  uproar,  the  shriller  clamor  of  the  hounds. 
Many  times  in  the  next  hour  it  seemed  to  me 
that  I  heard  the  baying  of  the  dogs  rising  above 
the  everlasting  soughing  surge  of  the  Riffles,  while 
I  stood  with  strained  nerves  and  rifle  ready,  only 
to  be  as  often  disappointed,  when  the  fooling  puff 
of  wind  died,  and  the  river  went  on  with  its  end- 
less song.  For  a  while  a  mink  amused  me,  stealing 
along  the  other  shore,  alert,  shy,  and  inquisitive; 


The  Gray  Pine. 

diving  for  a  minnow,  then  swimming  away  lithe 
and  silent  as  a  snake.  A  raven  came  down  like  a 
great  dusky  flake  out  of  the  lowering  sky  and 
lodged  on  a  dead  treetop ;  then  presently  a  flock  of 
snow  flakes  wavered  toward  the  earth,  and  with  a 
savage  blast  of  north  wind,  down  came  a  pelting 
snowstorm.  I  stood  at  my  post  till  the  river  banks 
were  SO'  white  that  the  stream  for  all  its  foam 
looked  black,  and  the  barrel  and  sight  of  my  rifle 
were  loaded  and  clogged  with  snow  faster  than  I 
could  clear  them,  and  then  I  began  to  look  around 
for  a  shelter  of  some  sort.  The  house  was  too  far 
from  the  runway,  of  which  I  was  loth  to  get  out 
of  range,  but  twenty  rods  back  from  me  in  the 
north  edge  of  the  clearing  stood  a  solitary  ever- 
green. To  this  I  retreated,  and  facing  the  river, 
backed  in  among  the  thick  lower  branches.  These 
and  the  dense  top  gave  me  considerable  protection 
from  the  storm,  now  raging  so  furiously  that  a 
deer  might  have  passed  unseen  within  ten  rods 
of  me. 

The  sheltering  tree,  which  at  first  I  had  taken 
for  a  spruce,  I  now  noticed  was  of  a  kind  that  I 
had  never  before  seen.  It  seemed  to  be,  if  such  a 
thing  were  possible,  a  hybrid  of  the  pitch  pine 
and  one  of  the  spruces;  its  leaves  too  short  for  a 
pine,  too  long  for  a  spruce,  and  wearing  not  the 

213 


Hunting  Without   a   Gun. 

healthy,  lusty  dark  green  of  either,  but  a  hue  of 
unwholesome  gray.  Though  evidently  old.  it  was 
low  and  stunted,  as  though  it  could  draw  no  suit- 
able nourishment  from  a  soil  that  fostered  other 
trees.  The  long  branches  writhed  out  in  snaky 
curves  from  the  lichen-scabbed  trunk,  and  toward 
the  ends  were  clasped  by  pairs  of  hooked  cones  like 
the  warty  claws  of  some  unclean  bird,  and  they 
hissed,  rather  than  sang,  as  do  the  branches  of  the 
evergreens  to  the  stroke  of  the  wind.  The  bare 
earth  about  its  roots  showed  no  undergrowth  of 
flowering  woodland  plants,  but  only  some  frost- 
bitten fungus,  black  and  foul  with  decay.  A 
strange,  uncanny  tree,  I  thought,  a  fit  canopy  for 
witches  when  they  hold  their  wicked  meetings,  and 
it  may  have  been  a  fancy  begotten  of  storm  and 
solitude,  but  I  began  to  feel  as  if  some  unholy 
spell  were  creeping  over  me.  Just  then  the  storm 
lulled;  the  wind  almost  ceased  its  howling,  and  the 
snowfall  slackened,  so  that  the  rush  of  the  waters 
again  became  the  dominant  sound,  and  the  long 
foamy  reach  of  the  river  reappeared.  Then  out  of 
the  voices  of  stream  and  forest  came  the  unmistak- 
able cry  of  a  hound,  hardly  assured,  before  a  great 
buck  splashed  into  the  upper  end  of  the  Riffles,  and 
came  down  them  toward  me.  My  heart  beat 
wildly,  but  sank  when,  midway  in  the  rapids,  he 

214 


The  Gray  Pine. 

turned  to  the  shore  and  began  to  climb  the  further 
bank.  It  was  a  long  shot  for  me,  but  my  only 
chance,  and  I  took  it.  Aiming  a  little  above  and 
ahead  of  him,  I  fired  and  missed.  He  did  not 
lower  his  flag,  but  halted  an  instant  when  he  had 
gained  the  top  of  the  bank,  looking  toward  the 
point  from  which  the  thin  report  had  come  to  him 
—halted  long  enough  to  have  given  me  another 
shot  if  I  had  been  armed  with  a  double  barrel  or 
a  repeater.  My  powder  flask  was  not  returned  to 
its  pocket  when  he  vanished.  The  hound,  at  fault 
when  he  came  to  the  water,  pottered  along  the 
shores  trying  every  place  but  the  right  one,  and 
giving  no  heed  to  my  calls  and  gestures,  and  I  was 
too  "cat-footed"  to  wade  the  icy  stream  and  put 
him  on  the  trail.  While  my  spirit  was  yet  in  the 
very  depth  of  humiliation,  Uncle  Harvey  came 
down  from  his  stand,  having  heard  the  shot  and 
nothing  more  of  the  hound  after  he  had  reached 
the  river. 

uDid  ye  kill  him?"  he  asked,  though  he  must 
have  known  by  my  looks  that  I  had  not.  Then, 
"Where  was  he?"  and  "Where  was  you?"  I 
pointed  out  the  spot,  where  a  broken  topped  maple 
leaned  over  the  Riffles,  at  which  the  deer  had  gone 
out  of  the  river,  and  showed  him  the  tree  under 
which  I  stood.  "Hmph!"  after  looking  over  the 

215 


Hunting  Without   a   Gun. 

distance  with  two  or  three  calculating  glances, 
"Le's  go  hum.  You've  had  yer  shot,"  and  more 
out  of  humor  than  I  had  ever  seen  him,  he  sharply 
called  the  hound,  and  tucking  his  rifle  under  his 
arm  led  the  way  toward  the  road.  As  we  passed 
the  strange  evergreen  I  asked,  glad  of  something 
else  than  shooting  to  talk  of: 

uWhat  kind  of  tree  is  this  that  I  stood  under 
when  I  fired?  It  is  something  I  never  saw  before. " 

He  stopped  and  looked  at  it,  at  first  carelessly, 
then  with  more  attention.  "God!"  with  an  expres- 
sion of  horror  and  disgust,  "was  you  a-standin" 
under  that  tree?" 

"Yes;  why  not?" 

"It's  no  wonder  't  ye  missed!  It's  more  a  won- 
der 't  yer  gun  didn't  bust  er  suthin'  an'  kill  yer! 
Why,  man  alive,  that  'ere  's  an  onlucky  tree! 
Come  'way  from  it,"  and  he  hurried  on,  giving  me 
no  time  to  ask  another  question  till  we  were  in  the 
road.  We  are  all  superstitious,  but  he  was  one 
of  the  last  men  whom  I  would  have  taken  to  be 
foolishly  SO',  and  my  curiosity  was  much  excited. 

"Tell  me  about  the  tree,  Uncle  Harvey,"  I  said, 
"I  never  heard  of  it  before." 

"It's  what  I  tell  ye,  an  onlucky  tree,  'at  no  man, 
much  less  a  woman,  is  safe  to  go  anigh !  I  wouldn't 
stand  under  that  'ere  tree  ten  minutes  for  half  o' 

216 


The  Gray  Pine, 

York  State !  I  didn't  know  't  the'  was  one  o'  the 
cussed  things  left  here,  'r  I'd  ha'  burnt  it  'fore 
naow.  I  c'n  tell  ye  no  end  o'  hurt  an'  trouble 
they've  made;  no<  end  on  't!  Why,  Sim  Woodruff, 
his  father  was  a-choppin'  one,  not  knowin'  what  it 
was  more'n  you  did,  an'  his  wife  a-stannin'  lookin' 
on  with  her  young  un  in  her  arms,  an'  a  chip  flew 
an'  took  her  in  the  eye  an'  put  it  aout,  an'  he  cut 
his  foot  so's  't  he  was  laid  up  all  winter;  an'  the 
baby  took  a  onaccaountable  sort  of  a  sickness  an' 
died.  An'  there  was  Dan'l  Frost  lay  daown  V 
went  tu  sleep  'n  underneath  one,  one  day  when  he 
was  het  an'  tired  a-traoutin',  an'  got  up  sick,  an' 
went  hum  'n'  died  in  less  'n  a  week.  'N  there*" 
halting  and  pointing  to  a  blackened  stump  that 
stood  near  the  roadside  in  the  center  of  a  patch  of 
frost-withered  ghostly  fire  weed,  UI  c'n  tell  ye  a 
sight  wus  story  'baout  one  'at  stood  right  there, 
but,"  lowering  his  voice  as  we  moved  on,  "I  can't 
tell  ye  naow,  for  we're  a  comin'  tu  M'nroe  Beadle, 
'n  his  relations  was  consarned  in  't."  When  this 
hunter  joined  us  a  few  moments  later,  Hale  briefly 
told  him  that  I  had  missed  a  deer,  and  why,  add- 
ing, "We  mus'  go  an'  burn  the  blasted  thing  the  fust 
chance  we  git."  Burning,  it  seemed,  was  the  only 
effectual  way  of  destroying  these  dangerous  trees. 
Facing  homeward  we  came  to  one  after  another 
217 


Hunting  Without  a  Gun. 

of  our  party,  and  toward  nightfall  reached  Uncle 
Harvey's.  However  much  some  might  have  been 
at  first  disposed  to  laugh  at  me,  when  the  old  man 
explained  the  cause  of  my  ill-success,  no  one  had  a 
jibe  for  me,  but  all  congratulated  me  on  having 
had  no  worse  luck  than  a  miss,  and  I  thought  the 
tree  or  the  strange  superstition  concerning  it  had 
served  me  a  very  good  turn. 

At  dusk  Sim  came  in,  and  was  glad  to  find  his 
favorite  hound  toasting  his  ribs  under  the  stove. 
The  other  dogs,  he  said,  had  started  another  deer 
and  run  it  over  Owl's  Head,  since  when  he  had 
neither  seen  nor  heard  them.  Presently,  without 
knocking,  as  every  one  entered  there  without  that 
preliminary,  came  Silas  Borden,  looking  tired,  but 
well  satisfied,  and  told  us  that  he  had  killed  as 
"nice  a  barr'n  doe  as  ever  run  the  woods,  over  tu 
Thompson  Pawnd.  Maje  an'  the  pup  run  her,  an' 
they're  daown  tu  my  house,  Sim.  Miss  Borden 
she's  fed  'em  up  good.  Tur'ble  good  womern  tu 
dawgs,  Miss  Borden  is,  when  the's  venison  brung 
hum.  Golly  blue!  if  I  didn't  hev  a  tougher, 
a-luggin'  on't  ov'  the  ridge."  Then  he  related 
with  all  the  minuteness  of  detail  that  hunters  never 
tire  of  giving  or  listening  to,  the  incidents  of  his 
solitary  hunt,  mapping  on  the  stove  griddle  with 
the  stump  of  a  match  his  course  and  that  of  the 

218 


The  Gray  Pine. 

deer  and  hounds,  and  his  position  when  the  deer 
came  to  the  pond.  It  was  bed  time  when  his  story 
was  ended. 

The  next  day  was  a  stormy  one  of  sleet  and  snow 
and  wild  wind  that  no  one  who  need  not  would  go 
abroad  in.  While  I  sat  by  the  roaring  stove  in  the 
first  stages  of  a  severe  cold,  taking  frequent 
draughts  of  Aunt  Nabby's  "pennyr'y'l  tea," 
Uncle  Harvey  told  me  the  "wust  story  of  the  on- 
lucky  tree." 


219 


THE  GRAY  PINE. 
II. 


HE  deserted  farm  at  the  head  of 
the  valley  was  once  owned  by 
Amos  Brown,  a  shiftless  and 
thriftless  farmer  and  as  unsuc- 
cessful a  hunter,  for  though  he 
was  a  good  shot  and  much 
fonder  of  ranging  the  woods  with  his  gun  and  sad- 
faced  hound  than  of  tilling  his  sterile  acres,  he 
"never  hed  no  luck."  Fonder  yet  of  the  social 
glass,  he  spent  many  unprofitable  hours  in  "Bell's 
tarvern,"  and  Bell  had  a  mortgage  on  his  farm 
and  a  lien  on  his  scanty  stock  for  every  cent  they 
were  worth. 

In  spite  of  the  disheartening  unthrift  of  the 
farm,  the  old  man's  only  daughter  kept  the-  house 
neat  and  comfortable,  and  strove  bravely  against 
the  tide  of  ill-fortune  that  soon  or  late  seemed  cer- 
tain to  overwhelm  them.  Her  mother  had  died 
when  she  was  but  a  child,  and  she  had  to  take  a 
woman's  place  in  the  little  household,  when  the 
girls  of  her  age  "down  the  river"  were  set  to  no 
heavier  tasks  than  baby  tending  and  berry  picking. 


220 


:The  Gray  Pine. 

She  was  such  a  notable  housekeeper  and  so  hand- 
some withal,  that  she  had  many  admirers,  and  had 
only  to  say  the  word  to  become  the  wife  of  the  only 
son  of  the  most  well-to-do  farmer  in  the  valley, 
but  for  some  reason  she  had  not  yet  been  per- 
suaded to  say  the  word.  She  was  very  patient  with 
her  father,  kind  and  thoughtful  of  his  comfort, 
humoring  and  caring  for  him  as  tenderly  as  if  he 
had  been  a  child  when  he  came  home  almost  help- 
lessly drunk  from  his  visits  to  the  tavern,  and  he 
was  so  proud  and  fond  of  her  that  it  was  a  wonder 
he  did  not  mend  his  ways  for  her  sake. 

One  summer  brought  them  great  luck,  so  Amos 
thought.  An  artist  discovered  the  valley  and  came 
to  board  with  them  for  a  week  or  two  while  he 
sketched  some  of  the  striking  and  picturesque  bits 
of  the  wild  scenery.  He  found  enough  close  at 
hand  to  keep  his  eye  and  pencil  busy  for  a  much 
longer  time,  and  his  stay  lengthened  to  a  month. 
Then  he  fitted  up  a  rough  studio  in  the  old  barn, 
and  settled  down  to  a  summer's  work,  paying  for 
his  board  and  privileges  what  seemed  a  windfall 
of  wealth  to  Amos  and  his  daughter,  though  it 
was  no  more  a  week  than  one  must  pay  now  for  a 
day's  entertainment  at  one  of  the  summer  resorts 
of  the  region.  Credit  was  restored  at  Bell's,  and 
the  old  man's  convivial  evenings  there  became 

221 


Hunting  Without  a   Gun. 

more  frequent.  But  not  all  the  ready  money  weat 
that  way.  Some  of  it  brought  more  comfortable 
furnishings  and  some  simple  adornments  to  the 
house,  and  a  becoming  new  dress  and  smart  bonnet 
made  Polly  so  much  handsomer  than  ever  that 
poor  Hiram  HulPs  heart  grew  sorer  every  day 
with  the  pain  of  misprized  love. 

Walter  White,  the  artist,  painted  for  love  of  art 
and  an  ambition  to  make  a  name  that  he  would  be 
prouder  of  than  that  of  a  rich  man's  only  son.  He 
cared  nothing  for  the  gay  life  that  most  young  men 
of  fortune  lived,  and  unaccountably  to  them  chose 
to  spend  the  summer  days  painting  in  this  out-of- 
the-way  nook  of  the  world  rather  than  take  the 
foremost  place  he  might  among  the  votaries  of 
fashion.  He  was  a  man  of  pleasant  speech  and 
kindly  ways,  and  so  unassuming  of  any  superiority 
to  these  humble  but  sensitive  people  among  whom 
he  was  sojourning  that  they  almost  all  liked  him, 
though  some  said  afterward  that  they  had  always 
thought  they  saw  a  lurking  devil  in  his  eye,  and  a 
marked  hardness  in  his  face.  He  treated  Polly 
with  a  respectful  politeness  so  different  from  the 
awkward  courtesy  of  her  accustomed  associates 
that  it  was  a  revelation  of  a  life  far  removed  from 
hers;  his  speech  and  manners  so  unlike  those  of 
any  one  she  had  ever  met,  made  him  seem  like 

222 


The  Gray  Pine. 

some  superior  being  from  another  world,  and  she 
could  not  but  feel  that  they  were  very  far  apart. 
As  the  summer  wore  away,  marking  its  decline 
with  goldenrod  along  the  waysides,  and  with  dull 
white  patches  of  everlasting  in  the  stony  pasture, 
this  feeling  of  wide  separation  began  to  be  very 
painful  to  her,  and  she  became  aware  that  too  often 
for  her  peace  of  mind  in  the  days  to  come,  thoughts 
of  their  guest  were  constantly  recurring.  In  a  lit- 
tle while  he  would  be  gone,  and  her  old  weary  life 
would  be  resumed,  and  go  on  and  on,  tending 
whither?  she  vaguely  wondered.  Its  few  possible 
ways  were  narrow  and  rough  at  best.  And  worst 
of  all  to  think  of,  was  that  she  and  her  life  would 
soon  pass  out  of  his  and  be  forgotten,  and  she 
could  never  forget  him.  She  grew  so  sad  and 
moping  that  her  father  noticed  how  changed  she 
was,  and  dimly  seeing  through  the  thin  disguise  of 
pretended  gaiety  she  at  times  put  on,  guessed  at 
what  she  strove  to  hide.  Some  sense  of  parental 
duty  faintly  illumined  his  befogged  soul,  and  one 
afternoon  as  they  sat  on  the  doorstep  in  the  eastern 
shadow  of  the  house,  he  smoking  and  stealthily 
noting  that  while  she  knitted  her  frequent  expectant 
glances  were  cast  across  the  fields,  he  was  impelled 
to  give  her  a  gentle  admonition. 

"Polly,"  he  began,  with  a  sudden  effort,  ".it's 
223 


Hunting  Without   a   Gun. 

dreffle  foolish  'n'  onprofitable  for  folks  tu  git  the' 
hearts  sot  on  folks  'at  don't  keer  nothin'  for  'em, 
hain't  it,  naow,  Polly?" 

"Course  it  is,  father,"  she  answered,  blushing  as 
red  as  the  blossoms  of  the  "posy  bean"  that  she 
had  trained  over  the  door.  "Why?"  with  a 
forced  little  laugh,  "It's  a  hopesin'  you  hain't  a  ben 
settin'  your  heart  on — le'  me  see — wal,  that  rich 
Widder  Harmern  't  owns  all  the  iron  works 
daown  t'  Ironton;  hev  ye,  father?" 

"Oh,  you  git  aout  wi'  yer  nonsense,  Polly,"  the 
old  man  said,  laughing  at  the  absurdity  of  the  idea. 
"No,  no,  little  gal,  I  hain't  a-foolin'.  It  is  dreffle 
foolish.  But  I  hev  knowed  them  'at  got  a  notiern 
't  'cause  somebuddy  er  nuther  was  kinder  sosher- 
ble  an'  friendly  tu  'em,  'at  they  sot  a  heap  by  'em, 
and  mebby  wanted  to  marry  'em,  when  they  raly 
didn't  keer  a  soo  markee  for  'em,  no,  not  one  single 
soo  markee !  You  'n'  I  wouldn't  git  no  sech  a 
notiern  int'  aour  heads,  little  gal,  but  the'  be  them 
'at  'ould,  an'  does.  S'posin'  now  'at — wall,  s'posin' 
'at  one  o'  them  'ere  Stinson  gals  daown  yunder," 
pointing  down  the  valley  with  his  pipe,  ugot  a 
notiern  't  'cause  Mr.  White,  f'r  instance,  spoke 
perlite  tu  her,  an'  thanked  her  more  fer  a  dipper 
o'  water  'n'  I  would  for  a  drink  o'  ol'  Medferd  'r 
Perishville  whisky" — the  names  of  these  liquors 

224 


The  Gray  Pine. 

made  his  mouth  so  watery  that  he  paused  to  wipe 
it  with  the  back  of  his  hand — "  'at  he  was  smit 
with  Jier,  an'  she  took  tu  sort  o'  pinin'  arter  him, 
haow  tur'ble  foolish  an'  onsenseless  it  'ould  be? 
Naow,  Polly,  I  ben  a-thinkin'  'baout  it,  'cause  I 
seen  him  a-prattlin'  long  wi'  that  'ere  lanky  Stinson 
gal  t'other  day"-— Polly  winced — uan'  I  ben 
a-thinkin'  'at  like  'nough  you  hed  orter  tell  her 
better  'n  tu  git  any  sich  a  idee,  seein'  'at  she  'n'  you 
is  tol'able  thick." 

"Pshaw!  father,"  she  burst  out,  contemptuously, 
"he  don't  care  no  more  for  M'ri  Stinson  'n  he  does 
for  you !" 

"Course  he  don't.  I  hain't  none  worried  'baout 
him !  I  know  'em,  them  high  duck  city  folks, 
smooth  and  putty  tu  us  here  's  long  we're  usefle  tu 
'em,  but  when  they  goddone  with  us,  we  hain't  no 
more  'caount  tu  em  'n  the  parin's  o'  the'  nails! 
They'd  be  'shamed  tu  be  seen  a-speakin'  tu  us 
mongst  their  toppin'  folks  t'  hum  !  It's  her  'at  I'm 
worried  'baout!  You  jist  give  her  a  kinder 
p'misc'ous  hint,  Polly." 

Feeling  that  he  had  performed  his  duty  with 
great  tact  and  delicacy,  the  old  man  knocked  the 
ashes  from  his  pipe  and  went  straggling  off  to  some 
pottering  task.  Polly  ran  indoors,  lest,  if  he  looked 
back,  he  should  see  her  crying. 

225 


Hunting   Without  a   Gun. 

A  mile  away  in  a  wild  gorge  Walter  White  sat 
painting.  A  mountain  brook  poured  its  shattered 
current  over  a  ledge  into  a  pool  whose  checkered 
wavelets  tossed  the  rafts  of  foam  bells  to  wreckage 
on  the  stony  margin  and  in  the  swift  rapids,  and 
wrinkled  into  fantastic  crookedness  the  reflections 
of  birch  and  balsam  and  mossy  rock.  He  was  in 
bad  humor,  vexed  with  himself  for  thinking  so 
often  of  Polly.  He  was  troubled  with  the  revela- 
tion lately  come  to  him,  that  the  poor  girl  loved 
him.  But  why  should  he  be  so  constantly  thinking 
of  her  goodness  and  beauty  and  of  how  much  he 
would  miss  her  when  he  went  away?  Why  should 
he  be  very  sad  with  the  thought  of  her  wasting  her 
life  on  the  besotted  old  father,  or,  at  best,  on  a 
cloddish  husband.?  Could  it  be  that  at  the  sugges- 
tion of  this  possibility  a  flame  of  jealousy  burned 
his  heart?  Then  came  a  vague  wish  for  impossi- 
ble things,  that  he  were  only  a  hunter  or  a  hill 
farmer  as  poor  and  humble  as  any  of  her  kind, 
with  her  to  keep  his  cabin  or  be  mistress  of  his  lit- 
tle farmhouse.  Why  not  quite  forsake  the  world 
he  cared  so  little  for?  His  pictures  might  go  to 
it  and  win  fame  for  him,  while  he  stayed  here. 
Why  not  build  an  artist's  ideal  home  in  the  woods 
and  mountains  that  had  been  waiting  for  centuries 
to  be  put  on  canvas — and,  what?  marry  Polly? 

226 


The  Gray  Pine. 

A  cold  shiver  ran  through  him  as  he  contrasted 
her  uncultivated  ways,  her  uncouth  pronunciation 
and  unmodulated  drawl  with  the  high  bred  ele- 
gance of  his  mother  and  sister.  And  he  shuddered 
with  disgust  at  the  thought  of  drunken  old  Amos 
Brown  as  a  father-in-law. 

Then  suddenly  a  wicked  thought  thrust  itself 
upon  him,  a  thought  that  made  him  feel  a  horror 
of  himself.  He  strove  to  cast  it  from  him,  but  it 
would  return  and  hold  argument  with  all  the  good 
that  was  in  him.  No,  he  would  not  be  a  villain, 
he  would  go  away  to-morrow  out  of  the  reach  of 
temptation.  One  wrench  of  the  girl's  heart,  an- 
other wrench  of  his — was  it  his  heart,  or  only  his 
fancy? — and  then  after  a  few  weeks'  or  months' 
ache  it  would  all  be  over,  the  heart-wounds  healed 
and  both  be  safe  and  whole,  and  if  with  sad,  yet 
with  not  unpleasant  memories  of  one  another.  But 
how  could  he  have  pleasant  memories  of  her,  and 
she  dragging  out  a  sunless  life  with  a  besotted 
father,  or  a  clod  of  a  husband?  Was  not  any  life 
better  for  her  than  either  of  these?  No;  to  bear 
through  all  her  days  her  heavy  burdens  and  live 
a  good  and  honorable  life  where  her  humble  lot 
was  cast,  was  better  a  thousand  times  than — .  He 
shuddered  at  the  thought  of  what  she  might  be- 
come if  this  devil  conquered  him.  He  would  go 

227 


Hunting   Without   a   Gun. 

to-morrow;  and  with  this*  resolve  his  heart  grew 
lighter,  and  he  hastened  to  finish  his  sketch  of  the 
waterfalls. 

"If  I  could  paint  those  foam  bells  as  they  are," 
he  said,  "every  one  with  the  picture  it  floats,  and 
not  have  to  content  myself  with  the  thin  half  circle 
and  dot  of  white  that  stand  for  bubbles,  then  I 
might  call  myself  a  painter !  Sail  to  me,  little  bub- 
ble, and  let  me  try."  When,  as  if  obeying  his  call, 
one  drifted  toward  him,  a  sudden  foolish  fancy 
took  him  to  let  its  fate  decide  his  action.  If  it 
came  safely  to  shore,  he  would  stay  a  fortnight 
longer,  if  it  burst  before  it  reached  the  shore  he 
would  go  at  once.  He  watched  it  intently  as  it 
danced  over  the  translucent  crinkles  of  the  pool, 
then  joined  itself  to  a  dancing  mate,  and  the  pair 
came  whirling  in  an  eddy  into  harbor,  touched  the 
pebbled  shore  at  his  feet  and  burst  in  one  sparkle. 
Alas  for  poor  Polly! 

He  staid  till  the  maples  along  the  riverside  were 
blood  red,  and  the  shivering  poplars  shone  like 
flickering  flames  of  yellow  light  among  the  dark 
balsams.  Then  one  day  he  packed  his  trunk  and 
went  away.  If  at  dusk  the  next  evening  Polly  was 
at  a  certain  evergreen  tree  that  stood  beside  the 
road,  so  different  from  all  the  other  evergreens 
that  they  had  often  noticed  it,  she  would  see  a  light 

228 


The  Gray  Pine. 

wagon  driven  there.  If  the  driver  alighted,  plucked 
a  sprig  of  this  tree  and  gave  it  to  her,  she  might 
know  he  had  come  to  take  her  to  the  little  lake  port 
where  her  lover  was  waiting. 

After  fidgeting  about  uneasily  all  the  morning 
of  that  fateful  day,  Amos  Brown  ukinder  guessed 
he'd  go  a-huntin'  for  a  leetle  spell,"  and  taking 
down  his  gun  and  waking  the  old  deaf  hound, 
wandered  off  into  the  woods.  His  daughter  knew 
that  his  hunting  was  almost  certain  to  take  him 
in  a  roundabout  way  to  Bell's,  and  that  he  would 
not  come  home  till  after  nightfall.  She  longed  to 
kiss  him  and  bid  him  farewell,  for  she  might  never 
see  him  again,  but  she  dared  not  even  say  good-by, 
for  she  was  choking  with  tears  held  back.  So  she 
only  gave  the  old  hound  a  parting  caress,  and  said 
in  a  broken  voice,  "Ta'  care  o'  yerself,  father." 

The  shadows  of  the  great  western  mountain 
wall  had  fallen  across  the  valley  and  half  way  up 
the  sides  of  the  eastern  range  as  Polly  busied  her- 
self with  her  last  household  tasks.  With  more  than 
usual  care  she  laid  the  linen  cloth  her  mother  had 
woven  and  set  her  father's  supper  for  him,  prepar- 
ing a  favorite  dish,  and  brewing  the  pot  of  strong 
tea  that  he  always  craved  when  he  came  home 
from  a  visit  to  Bell's.  She  had  not  realized  till 
now  how  desolate  home  would  be  for  him  without 

229 


Hunting   Without  a   Gun. 

her.  How  could  she  leave  him  so  forlorn  even 
for  her  lover's  sake  ?  And  an  undefined  dread  op- 
pressed her,  as  if  the  shadows  of  the  moun- 
tains had  fallen,  on  her  heart.  She  wondered  why 
the  shadows  ran  so  swiftly  up  the  mountain  sides, 
chasing  the  sunshine  toward  the  peaks,  and  the 
hours  flew  fast  as  those  of  one  condemned  to  death, 
not  dragging  slow  as  when  they  bring  some  great 
anticipated  joy.  A  voice  that  would  not  be  stilled 
iterated  that  duty  must  overbear  love,  that  she 
must  stay  with  her  father.  At  last  when  the  linger- 
ing touch  of  the  sunset  was  lifted  from  the  highest 
peak  to  the  clouds,  a  great  peace  and  rest  came 
over  her  soul,  for  she  had  made  her  final  decision. 
By  the  fading  light  she  wrote  in  a  cramped  hand 
an  ill-spelled  note  for  the  messenger  to  take  back 
to  Walter  White,  telling  him  that  she  had  even  so 
late  repented  of  her  foolish  promise,  and  would  stay 
with  her  father.  She  blushed  with  shame  to  think 
that  perhaps  her  lover  would  laugh  at  its  blunder- 
ing awkwardness,  but  it  comforted  her  to  feel  that 
he  must  respect  her  the  more  for  writing  it. 

She  had  put  on  a  dress  of  light-colored  stuff 
that  he  had  praised,  and  when  mountains  and 
woods  and  clearings  were  blurred  together  in  the 
dark,  she  went  out  to  the  appointed  place.  The 
river  sent  up  its  constant  murmur  of  many  voices, 

230 


The  Graf  Pine. 

changing  their  cadence  with  every  waft  of  the  light 
breeze,  yet  monotonous,  and  always  sad  as  the 
sighs  and  mysterious  whispers  of  the  dark  forests. 
The  crickets  creaked  with  mournful  monotony 
their  autumnal  chant,  and  the  night  air  was  scented 
with  the  odor  of  late  blossoms  and  withering  herbs 
and  dead  leaves  as  she  stood  waiting  in  the  black 
shadow  of  the  gnarled  and  scraggy  evergreen. 
The  tree  seemed  to  infuse  a  grave-like  chill  into 
the  atmosphere  beneath  and  about  it  that  made  her 
shiver,  and  cower  and  hug  herself  for  warmth. 

Amos  Brown  had  an  uncommonly  jolly  after- 
noon at  the  tavern  with  half  a  dozen  boon  com- 
panions who  generously  gave  their  time  to  the 
drinking  of  the  old  Medford  rum  that  he  paid  for; 
and  when  toward  nightfall  he  got  upon  his 
unstable  legs  and  went  tacking  along  the  road,  the 
landlord  watching  him  and  critically  and  profes- 
sionally considering  his  case,  doubted  whether  such 
legs  would  of  themselves  be  able  to  take  their 
owner  home.  Just  then  a  stout,  good-natured 
looking  young  man  came  sauntering  past.  "Look 
a  here,  Hi,"  said  Bell,  accosting  him,  u'f  you're 
a-goin'  up  the  rud,  why  don't  ye  kinder  keep  Uncle 
Amos  comp'ny?  Seems  's  'ough  he's  a  makin' 
consid'able  rail  fence  fur  tu  git  hum  by  bedtime." 

After  a  moment's  consideration  Hiram  Hall 
231 


Hunting   Without  a   Gun. 

saw  an  opportunity  of  doing  Polly  a  friendly  ser- 
vice, and  the  certainty  of  a  few  minutes'  speech 
with  her  that  he  had  long  been  wishing  for,  and  he 
answered  with  a  cheerful  alacrity,  "Wai,  I  snum! 
I  d'  know  but  what  I  will !"  The  plump  little  pub- 
lican felt  his  conscience  at  ease  when  he  saw  the 
strong  young  fellow  hook  his  arm  into  the  limp 
elbow  of  the  elder,  and  the  pair  disappear  in  the 
bend  of  the  road. 

Amos  was  a  light  weight,  notwithstanding  the 
load  he  carried,  and  Hiram  towed  him  steadily 
along  in  spite  of  the  unsteady  movement  of  his 
legs,  and  the  surge  of  his  body.  He  humored  him 
with  assent  to  his  maudlin  gabble,  and  when  he 
halted,  balancing  himself  for  a  prolonged  drunken 
argument,  he  was  coaxed  onward  by  telling  him 
that  his  daughter  "  'ould  be  a-waitin'  up  for  him, 
an'  a-gettin'  oneasy  'baout  him."  So  they  fared 
homeward  till  they  came  to  the  turn  of  the  road 
below  the  old  man's  house,  when  it  had  grown  so 
dark  that  the  drab  tracks  of  infrequent  wheels  were 
indistinct  before  them,  and  were  quite  blotted  out 
where  the  shadows  of  the  wayside  trees  fell 
thickest.  Hiram  stopped  suddenly,  clutching  his 
companion's  arm,  and  pointing  to  a  dim  whiteness 
that  slowly  uprose  in  the  shadow  of  an  evergreen, 
gasped  in  a  scared  whisper,  "What's  that?" 

232 


The  Gray  Pine. 

uBy  the  Lord,  it's  a  sperit,  Hirum,  er  less  a 
witch!"  the  old  man  said  in  a  low  voice  when  the 
mysterious  form  became  apparent  to  his  foggy 
vision.  "Le'  go  my  arm  'n'  I'll  show  ye  'at  a  bullit 
'ont  hurt  it!" 

The  wrords  were  hardly  spoken  before  the  rifle 
was  at  his  shoulder  and  spit  forth  its  slender 
stream  of  fire  toward  the  ghostly  figure,  and  so 
quickly  following  its  spiteful  crack  that  it  seemed 
a  prolongation  of  it,  came  a  sharp  cry  of  mortal 
agony,  and  the  white  shape  sank  to  the  earth.  The 
two  men  stood  blankly  staring  toward  each  other 
through  the  gloaming  in  the  sudden  silence  that 
ensued,  when  the  frightened  crickets  ceased  their 
melancholy  creak,  and  the  night  wind  held  its 
breath,  and  no  sound  was  heard  but  the  far-away 
sighing  rush  of  the  river.  Then  the  full  "hunter's 
moon"  came  pulsing  up  behind  the  mountain  crest 
and  slanted  its  rays  upon  them.  The  old  man 
went  forward  into  the  shadows  with  an  undefined 
horror  upon  him,  and  when  presently  the  younger 
came  to  him  he  was  kneeling  on  the  ground  with 
the  lifeless  body  of  his  daughter  in  his  arms.  "She 
was  a  waitin'  for  me,  Hi,"  was  all  he  said.  A  lit- 
tle later  Hiram  was  half  aware  of  someone  part- 
ing the  branches  and  of  a  face  looking  at  them  for 
an  instant,  blank  with  wonder,  then  as  white  with 

233 


Hunting  Without  a   Gun. 

horror  as  he  knew  his  own  must  be,  and  then  van- 
ishing. He  afterward  remembered  some  dim 
recognition  of  the  sound  of  wheels  clattering  away 
along  the  road. 

"Jest  help  me  kerry  the  little  gal  up  t'  the 
house, "  the  old  man  said  at  last,  very  calmly,  and 
spoke  no  more  till  they  had  laid  her  on  her  bed, 
and  he  had  lighted  a  candle  with  a  steady  hand. 
UI  got  one  more  favor  to  ask  on  ye,  my  boy.  Go 
daown  an'  ask  some  o'  the  women  folks  t'  come  up 
soon  's  they  kin,  er  in  the  mornin'  's  jest  as  well." 
Then,  with  the  innate  hospitality  of  a  mountaineer, 
uHev  a  bit  o'  suthin',  Hirum,  o'  the  last  she  ever 
set  for  her  mis'able  ol'  father?  There's  the  tea 
on  the  stone  ha'th  a-waitin'  for  me  'at  killed  her ! 
O,  my  God!" 

After  a  little  the  heart-broken  old  man  raised 
his  bowed  head  from  his  hands  and  looked  about 
for  something.  "Where's  my  gun?  Oh,  I  know; 
I'll  go  'long  daown  wi'  ye  an'  git  it,"  and  they  went 
out  together. 

The  last  that  Hiram  saw  of  him  as  he  cast  a 
glance  behind,  the  old  man  was  standing  in  the 
moonlit  road  carefully  loading  his  rifle.  "What's 
he  feared  on  'at  a  bullit  could  hurt?"  the  young 
man  bitterly  asked  himself,  and  then  a  fire  of 
wrath  flamed  up  in  his  slow  soul  against  the  lonely 

234 


The  Gray  Pine. 

man  who  had  wrought  as  great  desolation  to  his 
own  heart  as  to  that  of  the  father  himself. 

The  daylight  had  scarcely  scaled  the  mountain 
tops  and  the  stars  above  the  quiet  valley  were  just 
beginning  to  fade  with  the  gray  sky  when  the 
horror-stricken  neighbors  came  up  to  the  little 
house.  There  was  no  sign  of  life  about  it  but  the 
old  hound  crouching  sad  and  silent  on  the  door- 
step. Entering  they  saw  by  the  faint  light  of  the 
coming  day  and  the  candle  with  a  "winding  sheet" 
dropping  from  its  spluttering  wick,  old  'Amos 
Brown  lying  dead  upon  the  kitchen  floor,  with  his 
empty  rifle  cast  away  from  him,  and  in  the  bed- 
room poor  Polly,  with  her  hands  folded  across  her 
breast,  and  so  peaceful  a  look  upon  her  pale,  beau- 
tiful face,  that  at  first  they  thought  her  only 
asleep. 


235 


A  BEE  HUNTER'S  REMINISCENCES. 


O  you  like  to  hunt  bees,  Uncle 
Jerry?"  I  asked  my  old  friend, 
who  had  mentioned  that  pas- 
time with  a  glow  of  animation. 
"Of  course  I  du?"  he  an- 
swered, "anything  that's  huntin' 
an'  that  comes  the  fust  on't  when  the'  hain't  no 
other  huntin'.  It's  a  pleasant  time  o'  year  tu  be 
a-shoolin'  'raound  the  aidge  o'  the  woods  an'  intu 
'em,  an'  you're  like  tu  run  ontu  litters  o'  young  pa'- 
tridges  an'  1'arn  their  ha'nts  an'  come  ontu  signs 
o'  young  foxes  bein'  raised,  that'll  be  hendy  tu 
know  'baout,  come  fall.  An'  it  hain't  every  do- 
dunk  't  c'n  hunt  bees,  le'  me  tell  ye.  If  you  think 
so,  you  jest  try  it. 

"A  feller's  got  tu  hev  sharp  eyes,  an'  use  'em, 
an'  be  pooty  well  1'arned  in  the  critter's  ways,  an' 
hev  some  gumption,  in  a  gin'ral  way.  An'  it 
hain't  all  lazin'  'raound,  nuther.  I've  lined  bees 
nigh  ontu  three  mild,  an'  when  a  feller  done  that 
an'  fetches  up  ag'in  a  tame  swarm  in  someb'dy's  do' 
yard  it  makes  him  feel  kinder  wamble-cropped. 

236 


A   Bee   Hunter's   Reminiscences. 

"Oh,  bee-huntin'  hes  its  disappointments,  julluk 
all  huntin'  an'  ev'ything  else  in  this  airth.  Oncte 
I  got  some  bees  tu  workin'  an'  come  along  to- 
wards night,  Fd  got  'em  lined  up  clus  tu  where  the 
tree  was.  I  knowed,  'cause  the'  was  a  dozen  on 
'em  comin'  back  tu  the  box  in  no  time,  but  it  was 
gittin'  tew  late  tu  foller  'em,  so  I  set  a  chunk  o' 
comb  on  a  rock,  an'  quit  an'  went  hum,  'spectin' 
tu  make  a  short  job  on't  next  mornin'.  But  come 
tu  git  hum,  word  hed  come  'at  my  ol'  womern's 
mother,  Mis'  Perry,  was  a  hevin'  one  o'  her  spells, 
an'  wa'n't  'spected  tu  live,  an'  sb  we  hypered  off 
tu  Goshen  in  the  mornin'  an'  didn't  git  back  for  a 
week,  an'  then  when  I  went  tu  finish  findin'  my  bee 
tree,  darned  if  someb'dy  er  'nuther  hadn't  got 
ahead  o-'  me  an'  took  up  the  tree,  an'  a  big  one  it 
was,  tew.  An',  by  grab,  ol'  Mis'  Perry  didn't  die 
arter  all." 

Uncle  Jerry  drew  his  pipe  from  one  pocket  and 
from  another  a  great  oval  japanned  tin  tobacco- 
box,  bearing  on  its  cover  the  device  of  a  bee-hive 
and  the  legend,  "Industry  brings  plenty,"  on  which 
his  eye  rested  with  an  abstracted,  retrospective 
gaze.  He  continued  after  a  pause: 

"I  allers  thought  it  was  Hi  Perkins  an'  Joe 
Billin's  'at  got  that  honey,  but  I  got  square  wi'  'em. 
That  very  same  day  I  lined  a  swarm  stret  tu  a  tree 

237 


Hunting  Without  a   Gun. 

an'  put  my  mark  on't,  an'  as  I  went  moggin'  along 
back  towards  home,  on  the  line,  I  met  the  critters 
a-workin'  up  on  it,  an'  they  looked  cheaper'n  dirt 
when  I  told  'em  'at  I'd  faound  the  tree,  for  they'd 
be'n  a-workin'  the  line  ever  sence  mornin'." 

Uncle  Jerry  filled  his  pipe  and  found  a  time- 
worn  match  out  of  his  vest  pocket,  which  he  suc- 
ceeded in  lighting  after  repeated  scratchings  with 
both  ends  on  his  trousers.  Then  having  got  his 
pipe  in  blast,  he  resumed  his  reminiscences. 

"Yes,  bee  huntin'  hes  its  disapp'intments  an'  on- 
certainties,  an'  mebby  that's  what  makes  all  sorts 
o'  huntin'  interestin'.  One  time  I  was  goin'  tu 
Ch'lotte,  on  the  New  Rud,  an'  as  I  druv  along 
past  Wheeler's  woods  a  gawpin'  up  int'  the  trees, 
I  see  a  swarm  o'  bees  a  skivin'  in  an'  aout  of  a  hole 
abaout  twenty-five  feet  up  a  big  ellum,  an'  thinks, 
says  I,  there's  luck  for  ye,  a-findin'  a  bee  tree 
'thaout  huntin'  a  minute,  an'  it's  big  'nough  for  a 
hunderdweight  o'  honey.  So  nex'  day  I  took  my 
hired  man  an'  each  on  us  an  ax  an'  hitched  on  t' 
the  one-hoss  lumber  box  waggin  an'  loaded  a  big 
brass  kittle  into  't,  an'  off  we  went  tu  take  up  the 
tree  'fore  anybody  else  diskivered  it. 

uThe  on'y  way  we  c'ld  fall  it  was  right  across 
the  rud,  but  hev  that  honey  we  must,  and  so  at 
it  we  went,  hammer  an'  tongs,  an'  it  hotter  'n 

238 


A   Bee   Hunter's   Reminiscences. 

blazes.  In  'baout  an  haour  daown  she  come,  ker- 
onch,  right  acrost  the  rud.  An'  haow  much 
honey  du  ye  su'pose  we  got?" 

"Well,  50  pounds/'  I  guessed,  after  considering 
the  size  of  the  tree,  and  meaning  to  get  within 
reasonable  limits. 

"Not  a  tarnal  drop!  Not  one  speck!"  cried 
Uncle  Jerry.  "By  grab,  they  wa'n't  bees;  they  was 
abaout  a  hatf'l  o'  blasted  yaller-jackets.  An'  there 
we  hed  that  tree  tu  git  aouten  the  rud  an'  them 
a-sockin'  on't  tu  us  red  hot,  an'  whilst  we  was 
a-choppin'  an'  a-boostin'  an'  a-fightin'  hornets, 
along  come  the  fust  s'lec'man  an'  faound  the  high- 
way blocked  up,  an'  that  made  him  mad,  an'  he 
give  me  Hail  Columby,  an'  I  was  mad,  tew,  but 
tew  'shamed  tu  say  anything  back,  but  it  done  me 
some  good  when  a  hornet  took  him  in  the  forwed, 
an'  'fore  he  got  by  they  stung  his  hoss — an'  he 
went,  I  tell  ye. 

"An'  'fore  we  got  away  one  on  'em  gin  it  tu  aour 
hoss  jest  as  we  got  ready  tu  start,  an'  the  way  that 
'ere  kettle  baounded  an'  rattled  an'  we  a-hangih' 
ont'  the  seat  an'  the  ol'  hoss  a  humpin'  hisself  for 
all  he  was  wu'th,  if  it  wa'n't  a  circus — wal!" 

A  chapter  of  description  was  condensed  in  that 
concluding  word,  and  Uncle  Jerry  did  not  spoil  the 
picture  by  adding  another  touch. 

239 


Hunting   Without  a   Gun. 

"Bees  is  cur'us  critters,"  he  began  again,  after  a 
few  minutes  of  meditative  puffing.  "I  got  terribly 
bothered  oncte  on  the  saouth  eend  o'  Shellhaouse 
Maountain.  I'd  ketched  a  bee  an'  got  tu  work  an' 
-got  his  line  right  up  a  holler  int'  the  woods,  an' 
he'd  be  gone  jest  five  minutes  every  time,  but  the' 


was  a  place  I'd  lose  him  an'  couldn't  find  the  tree 
ner  foller  him  one  inch  furder.  He  never  fetched 
a  bee  back  with  him.  I  fussed  with  him  all  day  an' 
when  I  went  hum  at  night  I  toP  my  neighbor,  ol' 
Uncle  Pa'sons.  He  was  an  oP  bee  hunter,  an'  says 
he,  'I  c'n  find  'em  in  ten  minutes,  I  bet  ye.' 

"So  next  mornin'  he  put  up  a  bite  o'  suthin'  tj 
eat  an'  went  'long  wi'  me  an'  he  fussed  wi'  that 

240 


A  Bee  Hunter's  Reminiscences. 

pleggid  bee  all  the  forenoon,  an'  all  he  c'ld  du  was 
tu  git  ontu  a  ridge,  an'  he  said  it  was  one  o'  Barnses 
tame  bees  an'  no  use  in  follerin'  on  't  no  furder,  an' 
so  he  eat  his  grub  an'  went  hum,  but  I  wouldn't 
give  it  up  yit. 

"I  got  the  bee  in  the  box  an'  kerried  it  up  on  the 
ridge  an'  let  him  go,  an'  the  fust  time  he  come  an' 
went  I  got  his  line  right  stret  along  the  ridge,  an' 
didn't  go  ten  rod  'fore  I  faound  the  tree,  a  big 
chestnut  oak.  We  hed  a  time  a-takin'  on  't  up,  for 
the'  was  a  snarl  o'  bees  an'  they  was  uglier  'n  sin. 
But  we  got  over  a  hunderdweight  o'  honey.  It  was 
'cause  the  swarm  was  so  rich  'at  that  'ere  bee 
worked  so  slow  an'  come  back  alone,  but  I  never 
see  one  travel  so  crooked.  Suthin'  'baout  the 
laidges,  I  s'pose. 

"Another  cur'us  thing  is  if  you  kerry  bees  past 
the'  tree  they  won't  come  back  tu  the  box. 

"Twicte  I  got  scairt  a-bee  huntin'.  Once  was 
when  I  went  tu  'the  Patrimony'  wi'  Sol  Mead  tu 
take  up  a  bee  tree.  It  was  an  all-killin'  hot  day, 
an'  we  daowned  the  tree  an'  slabbed  off  a  piece 
where  the  honey  was,  an'  was  a-takin'  on't  aout 
when  all  tu  oncte  Sol  he  was  took  sick,  an'  I  tell 
you  he  was  awful  sick  I  laid  him  'n  under  a  tree, 
an'  he  kep'  a-growin'  sicker,  an'  I  reckoned  he'd 
die  sartain  an'  folks  'Id  say  I  killed  him. 

241 


Hunting   Without   a   Gun. 

"But  he  made  me  go  an'  finish  takin'  up  the 
honey,  an'  I  did,  an'  the'  was  a  whole  lot  on't 
which  I  wished  the'  wa'n't  none.  A  tree  full  o' 
honey  an'  a  dyin'  man  on  my  hands  tu  oncte  was 
more'n  I  wanted.  But  I  got  the  honey  took  keer 
on,  an'  it  an'  Sol  int'  the  waggin  an'  started  the  per- 
cession.  He  begin  tu  git  better  'fore  we  got  hum, 
an'  was  all  right  nex'  day.  I  cal'late  'twas  the  heat 
an'  the  smell  o'  the  mad  bees  a  fumin'  up  int'  his 
face  't  ailded  him. 

"T'other  time  I  was  alone,  linin'  some  bees  on 
Shellhaouse,  an'  't  was  gittin'  late  an'  I'd  got  tu 
quit,  when  I  hearn  the  awfulest  yowlin'  right 
daown  the  wood  rud  I  was  cal'latin'  to  go.  Fust 
I  thought  't  was  a  woman  who  was  lost,  an'  then  I 
knowed  it  wa'n't,  but  some  sort  of  an  annymil. 
Mebby  it  was  a  painter,  but  more  likely  it  was  a 
lynk,  but  I  wa'n't  hankerin'  arter  a  lynk  fight  wi' 
nothin'  but  a  bee  box  an'  a  jack-knife  for  weep'ns, 
an'  I  jest  hypered  right  over  the  maountain,  best 
foot  for'ard.  Last  I  hearn,  the  critter  was  yowlin' 
right  where  I  quit  off,  but  I  didn't  stop  to  listen 
much  till  I  got  int'  the  lots.  The'  was  a  lynk  killed 
in  the  west  part  o'  the  taown  the  week  arter,  but 
mebby  it  wa'n't  mine. 

"You  sh'ld  like  tu  go  a-bee  huntin',  hey?  Wai, 
't  ain't  much  use  nowerdays,  the's  so  many  tame 

242 


A  Bee  Hunter's  Reminiscences, 

ones  tu  bother  a  feller.  An'  I  guess  y'  eyes  hain't 
good  'nough.  Nighsighted,  hain't  ye?  An1  it 
hain't  ev'y  dodunk  'at  c'n  hunt  bees.  But  come 
nex'  summer,  we'll  try  it  a  hack  if  you  wantu." 

Uncle  Jerry's  words  are  not  encouraging  to  one 
whom  he  evidently  considers  a  "dodunk,"  and 
summer  seems  far  off  as  one  looks 'across  the  dun, 
flowerless  fields  to  bleak,  gray  woods,  and  I  doubt 
if  we  ever  utry  'em  a  hack." 


243 


BEE  HUNTING. 


HAT  survival  of  man's  primitive 
wildness  which  is  termed  the 
sporting  instinct  exhibits  itself 
in  some  forms  that  are  not  recog- 
nized as  legitimate  by  those  who 
arrogate  to  themselves  the  title 
of  true  sportsmen.  Yet  who  shall  say  that  they  are 
not,  since  they  have  the  authority  of  most  ancient 
usage  and  are  entered  upon  with  as  keen  a  zest  by 
those  who  affect  them  as  are  the  so-called  legiti- 
mate methods  by  those  who  practice  only  them  ? 

Even  the  fish  spearer  and  the  trapper  find  in  the 
excitement  of  their  pursuits  and  in  the  acquirement 
and  exercise  of  skill  an  enjoyment  quite  distinct 
from  the  acquisition  of  gain,  and  as  keen  as  that  of 
the  acknowledged  sportsman. 

They  may  have,  too,  their  purely  aesthetic 
quality,  for  it  is  possible  that  the  wielder  of  the 
spear  may  be  as  contemplative  as  the  caster  of  the 
fly,  and  that  a  man  may  commune  with  nature  as 
profitably  while  he  sets  a  trap  as  does  another  while 
he  sights  a  flying  bird. 

244 


Bee  Hunting. 

More  apt  than  either  of  these  to  fall  into  such 
gentle  moods  one  might  fancy  the  bee  hunter.  His 
lines  are  cast  in  pleasant  places  in  the  delightful 
weather  of  late  summer  and  early  fall,  and  he 
spends  the  golden  hours  of  busy  indolence  with 
bees  and  flowers  for  his  most  intimate  associates. 

He  has  time  and  opportunity  to  observe  the  ways 
of  wild  things,  and  he  can  hardly  help  but  grow 
into  some  accord  with  nature  while  he  breathes  the 
fragrance  of  her  ripeness,  hears  the  drowsy  hum  of 
the  bees,  the  faint  trickle  of  the  spent  rills,  caught 
and  lost  amid  the  fitful  stir  of  leaves  and  the  fare- 
well notes  of  lingering  singers.  What  his  craft 
has  trained  his  senses  to  catch  and  much  besides,  he 
may  use  to  a  finer  purpose  than  its  own  object. 

No  man  needs  a  keener  eye  than  he  to  follow 
such  swift,  diminutive  quarry,  nor  keener  wits,  and 
he  must  be  cool  and  resolute,  for  this  hunting  has 
its  spice  of  danger. 

Who  shall  say  that  bee  hunting  may  not  become 
a  fine  art  among  sports,  and  that  in  the  increasing 
dearth  of  fish  and  fowls  and  beasts  of  venery  the 
wild  honey  bee  may  not  come  to  be  legitimate  game 
and  the  hunting  thereof  the  contemplative  man's 
recreation? 


245 


CLEANING  THE   OLD   GUN. 


| ELL,  the  cleaning  of  the  old  gun 
must  not  be  put  off  longer.  I  am 
ashamed  when  I  even  try  to  re- 
call the  length  of  time  she  has 
borne  this  charge  in  her  vitals. 
Counting  the  months  backward 
to  the  happy  day  when  my  dear  friend  Jack,  of 
Michigan,  went  fox  hunting  with  me,  they  mount 
up  to  twelve,  to  twenty-four,  yea,  and  seven  more, 
an  army  of  ghosts  that  arise  from  their  calendared 
tombs  and  condemn  me  for  this  neglect  of  my  first 
loved  gun. 

She,  of  all  the  guns  my  youthful  eyes  beheld, 
was  the  first  who  enchanted  me;  she,  to  my  bashful 
touch,  first  responded  with  a  roar  of  musical  thun- 
der and  a  kick  that  I  was  proud  to  receive,  when  I 
was  permitted  to  fire  her  at  a  mark.  Her  I  first 
loaded  with  trembling  hands,  doubtful  when  the 
heroic  feat  was  accomplished  whether  powder  or 
shot  were  uppermost,  or  the  proper  wad  of  tow  be- 
tween them  or  underneath  them. 

246 


Cleaning  the  Old  Gun. 

It  is  humiliating,  even  now,  that  five  and  forty 
years  have  passed,  to  confess  that  presently  was 
given  proof  of  skillful  loading  by  later  unskillful 
handling.  The  thin  copper  cap,  bright  as  a  new 
cent,  and  worth  more  to  me,  was  set  upon  the  nip- 
ple, the  striker  drawn  backward,  the  trigger  pulled 
to  ease  it  down  to  its  proper  place,  for  hammer 
down  was  the  rule  of  safety  in  those  days,  and  the 
half-cock  arrangement  was  thought  to  be  a  useless 
survival  of  flintlock  times,  in  whose  declining  years 
this  old  gun  was  born  in  a  London  gunshop.  My 
nervous  thumb  slipped,  down  fell  the  hammer,  the 
house  was  shaken  with  the  discharge,  the  shot  was 
driven  like  a  bullet  through  the  panel  of  the  kitchen 
door  and  spattered  upon  the  ceiling  of  the  hall. 
Serene  amid  the  uproar  and  its  after  hush,  my 
grandfather  turned  from  the  window  where  he 
stood  dreaming  an  old  man's  dream  of  the  past, 
and  I  believe  he  would  have  been  little  moved  if 
the  shot  had  scattered  in  his  silver  locks. 

"What  is  thee  trying  to  do?"  was  all  he  asked, 
and  I  had  no  answer  nor  he  any  reproach.  He  was 
one  of  those  rare  old  men  who  remember  that  they 
were  once  boys,  and  can  forgive  as  they  desired  to 
be  forgiven.  I  cannot  remember  how  many  weary 
days  or  weeks  or  months  went  by  before  I  dared 
to  take  this  gun  in  hand  again.  Heaven  knows 

247 


Hunting   Without  a   Gun. 

they  were  long  enough  to  count  as  years  go  now, 
when  I  wait  and  wait  for  what  will  never  come. 

But  still  the  old  gun  waits  its  cleaning.  No  won- 
der that  one  grown  accustomed  to  the  easily  and 
readily  apparent  cleaning  of  the  breechloader, 
dreads  attacking  the  cavernous  depths  of  the  muz- 
zleloader.  How  shall  he  know  when  he  has 
pumped  them  with  cold  water,  scalded  them  with 
hot,  and  wiped  them  with  the  last  rag,  that  those 
hidden  recesses  are  not  entertaining  rust  that  doth 
corrupt?  Only  the  cunning  hand  of  the  gunsmith 
would  reveal  the  condition  of  that  dark  interior. 
Otherwise  we  could  only  hope  for  the  best  or  fear 
the  worst. 

I  take  down  the  old  gun  from  the  hooks  whereon 
in  these  idle  hours  she  has  hung  since  the  days  I 
first  knew  there  were  guns  and  began  to  covet  their 
use  and  possession.  Many  changes  and  much  rough 
usage  she  has  undergone  since  then  when  her  ignit- 
ing force  slept  in  the  cool  flint  of  her  comely  lock, 
and  its  flash  awakened  fire  and  thunder  that  burst 
from  her  three  feet  and  six  inches  of  octagonal  and 
round  barrel  of  seventeen  gauge.  Longer  ago  than 
I  can  remember,  her  lock  was  clumsily  changed  to 
the  incoming  percussion  fashion  by  Seaver,  of  Ver- 
gennes,  a  gunsmith  who  scoffed  at  the  idea  of  bar- 
rels ever  being  twisted  or  made  in  any  way  but  by 

248 


Cleaning   the   Old   Gun. 

longitudinal  welding  of  the  tube.  How  distinctly 
I  remember  the  old  man  and  his  low-roofed  shop. 
Spectacled  and  so  bent  with  years,  he  need  not 
stoop  to  his  work  of  filing  a  stiff  sear  spring  while 
he  gossiped  of  his  townsmen,  one  of  whom  was 
"jest  a-dyin'  of  reg'lar  ol'  fashioned  rum  consump- 
tion, poor  oP  creetur."  The  grimy  walls  of  his 
den  were  arrayed  with  guns  of  all  sorts,  repaired 
and  awaiting  repairs,  and  bunches  of  new  steel 
traps,  of  which  he  was  a  famous  maker  in  those 
days  when  the  Newhouse  trap  was  unknown.  Nine 
dollars  a  dozen  was  the  regular  price  of  good 
hand-made  muskrat  traps.  I  doubt  not  he  was 
tinkering  the  militia  men's  muskets,  perhaps  in  this 
same  shop,  in  the  martial  days  of  the  last  war  with 
England,  when  all  the  Champlain  Valley  was  alert 
for  British  invasion,  and  McDonough's  fleet  was 
threatened  with  blockade  or  destruction  where  it 
lay  at  the  Buttonwoods  in  Otter  Creek. 

Well,  it  was  not  making  or  mending  guns  that 
I  set  about,  but  the  cleaning  of  this  one,  and  still 
she  waits  my  tardy  hand.  Out  with  the  rusty 
charge.  Mercy,  how  she  kicks,  and  how  a  gun 
always  kicks  more  when  fired  at  a  target  than  at 
game,  as  if  she  resented  such  futile  use.  But  the 
fact  is,  unless  one's  cheek  and  shoulder  are  butted 
unmercifully  one  never  notices  a  kick  in  the  excite- 

249 


Hunting   Without   a   Gun. 

ment  of  game  shooting,  while  in  cold-blooded  tar- 
get shooting  he  feels  the  slightest  recoil,  and  may 
sometimes  detect  himself  shutting  his  eyes  in  ex- 
pectation of  it  as  he  pulls  the  trigger. 

Ramrod  and  key  are  drawn,  the  barrel  un- 
hooked, the  breech  immersed  in  a  half  pailful  of 
cold  water,  which  with  frequent  changes  is  pumped 
through  the  barrels  with  a  swab  of  tow  or  cloth  on 
the  cleaning  rod,  till  water  and  swab  show  no  sus- 
picion of  filth.  Then  boiling  water  is  poured  into 
the  muzzle  till  the  barrel  is  too  hot  to  hold  in  the 
naked  hand,  then  drained,  muzzle  down,  a  few 
moments,  and  wiped  with  clean  swabs,  changed 
again  and  again.  The  first  comes  forth  wet  and 
red  with  rust  that  even  so  quickly  has  formed,  the 
next  stained  with  it,  but  only  moist,  and  by  and  by, 
after  arm-tiring  friction,  the  swab  reappears  at  the 
muzzle  as  clean  and  dry  as  when  it  entered,  and 
withal  quite  warm.  Now  an  internal  and  external 
touch  of  oil,  and  the  work  is  done  conformably  to 
the  instructions  of  Frank  Forrester  in  his  uManual 
for  Young  Sportsmen."  Happy  is  it  for  you  who 
now  inherit  the  title  and  have  entered  the  field 
since  the  general  introduction  of  breechloaders  that 
his  prediction  concerning  the  practicability  of  such 
arms  was  not  fulfilled,  and  that  you  are  spared  the 
tedious  labor  of  cleaning  muzzleloaders. 

250 


Cleaning   the   Old   Gun. 

If  the  old  gun  does  not  look  as  good  as  new  now 
that  she  is  made  cleanly,  she  is  at  least  seemly,  and 
I  would  not  if  I  could  obliterate  the  scratches  and 
bruises  that  mark  stock  and  barrel,  for  they  are  re- 
minders of  half-forgotten  incidents,  and  bring  up 
visions  of  happy  days  of  unreturning  youth.  Not 
one  of  us  graybeards  but  looks  backward  with  long- 
ing to  those  care-free  days,  but  if  we  could  recall 
one  of  them  and  live  it  again,  would  it  be  wise  to 
do  so?  Would  not  the  heaviness  of  these  present 
inevitable  days  be  increased  and  made  less  bearable 
by  this  brief  lightening  of  the  burden? 

Seen  through  the  mists  of  intervening  years,  how 
long  and  bright  and  full  of  unmixed  happiness  they 
appear  to  our  regretful  eyes,  yet  they  were  no  bet- 
ter to  us  then  than  these  are  now — never  quite  per- 
fect, always  lacking  something  that  was  to  come 
by  and  by,  when  we  would  be  men  and  the  world 
our  oyster.  Though  they  have  drifted  far  away 
into  the  past,  we  have  lived  them  and  they  are  still 
ours  to  fondly  love  and  remember.  Then  why 
should  we  regret  them?  Ah,  why?  But  still 
we  do. 

Who  can  ever  forget  and  not  wish  to  feel  again 
what  he  never  can — the  exalted  thrill  of  his  first 
successful  shot  at  any  kind  of  game?  How  the 
touch  of  this  old  gun  with  which  the  feat  was 

251 


Hunting   Without   a   Gun. 

accomplished,  brings  to  mind  the  killing  of  my  first 
squirrel,  brought  down  from  the  top  of  a  tall 
hickory  with  a  ball  that  unknown  to  me  had  been 
rammed  atop  of  the  powder  for  larger  game.  I 
remember,  too,  the  scolding  I  got  for  shooting  such 
a  charge  toward  the  house,  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
away.  I  was  so  proud  of  the  feat  that  a  scolding 
was  nothing,  only  that  it  seemed  to  me  I  deserved 
rather  a  little  praise  for  having  knocked  off  a  squir- 
rel's head  with  a  single  ball  from  a  smooth  bore. 

So  comes  back  the  memory  of  my  first  partridge, 
the  indescribale  aroma  of  the  October  woods, 
luminous  with  gorgeous  tints,  the  dusky  form 
skulking  through  the  undergrowth,  the  instanta- 
neous aim,  the  sullen  roar  that  broke  the  stillness 
of  the  woods,  the  moment  so  full  of  hope  and 
heart-sickening  uncertainty  till  the  fluttering  bird 
was  seen  and  pounced  upon  and  gloated  over.  I 
am  no  more  ashamed  now  than  I  was  then  that  he 
was  shot  on  the  ground,  and  hold  that  no  man  need 
be  more  ashamed  of  fairly  stalking  a  ruffed  grouse 
than  a  deer.  Both  feats  call  tor  wariness  and 
woodcraft,  though  the  last  requires  the  more, 
while  shooting  grouse  from  a  tree  to  which  they 
have  been  put  by  a  yelping  dog  needs  but  a  keen 
eye  and  a  target-shot  aim. 

With  us,  there  were  no  ruffed  grouse  then,  nor 
252 


THE    HOUSE    A    QUARTER    OF    A    MILE    AWAY.' 


253 


Hunting  Without  a   Gun. 

wing-shooting — only  "patridges,"  and  silting  or 
running  shots.  No  one  whom  we  knew  ever  shot 
birds  on  the  wing,  except  Judge  Pierpoint,  of  Ver- 
gennes,  who  made  great  bags  of  ducks  and  wood- 
cock on  Great  and  Little  Otter  creeks  and  their 
borders.  That  was  something  that  only  a  lawyer 
could  achieve  and  boys  only  dream  of  as  a  possi- 
bility of  the  future  that  might  bring  all  things. 

The  result  of  my  first  attempt  at  wing-shooting 
surprised  me  as  much  as  the  bird  I  fired  at,  a 
pigeon  that  had  repeatedly  flown  from  gne  to  the 
other  of  the  barns,  whereon  I  was  trying  to  get  a 
pot  shot  at  him.  At  last,  as  he  flew  across  me,  I 
let  fly  at  him  in  sheer  desperation,  and  down  he 
slanted  in  a  long  curve  from  his  straight  arrowy 
flight,  stone  dead  when  he  struck  the  earth.  From 
that  day  forth  I  was  always  upulling  trigger"  on 
flying  birds,  oftener  wasting  than  giving  good  ac- 
count of  precious  ammunition;  but  in  the  beginning 
I  had  acquired  the  knack  of  aiming  quickly,  and  it 
was  sometimes  a  bird  and  not  I  who  got  the  worst 
of  it  in  my  frequent  fusilades. 

This  old  gun  gave  me  my  first  woodcock  who 
went  whistling  out  of  the  tasseled  border  of  the 
cornfield,  seen  for  a  flash,  then  whistling  out  of 
sight  behind  the  top  of  a  young  apple  tree,  through 
which  I  blazed  away  in  the  direction  of  his  flight. 

254 


Cleaning   the   Old   Gun. 

Impressed  with  a  belief  in  his  fall,  I  searched  with 
a  faith  that  was  well  rewarded  when  I  found  him 
a  few  rods  farther  on  belly  up  among  the  rank 
aftermath.  Oh,  long-past  golden  day  of  Septem- 
ber, has  thy  like  ever  since  shone  on  happier  or 
prouder  boy? 

This  open  confession  compels  the  admission  that 
for  all  the  small  thunder  I  have  let  loose  from  this 
and  other  guns  in  swamp  and  alder  thicket,  a  few 
figures  would  compass  the  score  of  woodcock 
brought  to  pocket  between  that  first  and  the  last 
that  I  shall  ever  shoot ;  but  those  I  so*  possessed  I 
was  proud  of  and  duly  thankful  for.  Woodcock 
must  be  growing  scarce  here,  for  in  the  last  half 
dozen  years  of  my  shooting,  which  ended  four 
years  ago,  I  did  not  flush  many  birds  in  all  the 
good  summer  and  fall  cover  that  I  beat.  Too  many 
guns  and  too  little  cover  have  almost  accomplished 
the  downfall  of  his  goodly  race. 

It  was  the  great  ambition  of  my  generation  of 
boys, to  shoot  ducks.  How  many  weary  days  have 
I  haunted  the  banks  of  Little  Otter  and  the  East 
Slang,  unsuccessful  but  still  hopeful  of  a  shot,  and 
how  my  heart  sickened  when,  after  a  long  crawl 
through  the  unheeded  thistles  of  a  creekside  pas- 
ture, the  grand  opportunity  lay  before  me,  a 
huddled  flock  within  short  range.  The  deadly  aim 

255 


Hunting   Without  a   Gun. 

was  assured,  the  trigger  pulled  and — the  gun 
missed  fire.  With  a  torrent  of  epithets  I  reviled 
the  most  innocent  weapon,  for  the  fault  of  some 
Gallic  manufacturer  of  percussion  caps.  Who  that 
knew  them  does  not  remember  with  bitterness  of 
spirit  those  little  cups  of  copper  foil  shedding  unre- 
luctantly  their  thin  scale  of  fulminating  powder  as 
lifeless  as  the  paper  box  that  inclosed  them,  and 
labeled  with  effrontery  more  brazen  than  them- 
selves "Qualite  Superieure"  and  the  maker's  initials 
blazoned  in  large  capitals  UG.  D.,"  which  gave  to 
the  vexed  Anglo-Saxon  a  hint  of  supplement  in 
plain,  if  profane,  English.  Did  we  not  arise  and 
call  blessed,  Ely  and  Cox  and  others  of  our  own 
blood  who  gave  us  honest  caps,  vital  with  a  spark 
that  the  hammer's  strike  always  awoke? 

Never  a  duck  did  I  get  till  one  October  after- 
noon Jule  Dop  paddled  me  from  Sile  Baily's  land- 
ing to  "Pint  Judy  Pint"  in  the  East  Slang.  As 
well  defined  as  then,  open  before  me  between  their 
pale  of  brown  and  yellow  sedge  and  rice,  the  blue- 
black  curves  and  reaches  of  quiet  water,  brightened 
here  and  there  with  the  reflected  glory  of  scarlet 
water  maples,  glints  of  sunshine  and  double  of 
silver  cloud.  Were  we  moving,  or  were  shores, 
trees  and  marsh  filing  past  us  ?  The  sough  of  the 
breeze  made  them  noisier  than  the  progress  of  the 

256 


Cleaning  the  Old  Gun. 

boat,  most  apparent  by  the  ripples  that  stirred  rush 
and  lily-pad  far  astern.  Forty  years  and  more  have 
flown  since  that  incomparable  wielder  of  the  pad- 
dle drifted  into  the  mystery  of  the  unknown.  Poor 
vagabond,  wherever  he  sleeps  in  his  unmarked 
grave,  peace  to  him,  and  eternally  the  rest  which 
in  his  brief  life  he  ever  desired. 

Silently  we  rounded  the  bend  below  the  reed 
bog,  and  then,  where  the  channel  hugs  the  south 
shore  of  Horse  Pasture  Point,  up  sprang  a  great 
dusky  duck  with  a  prodigious  flutter  of  wings  and 
a  raucous  quack  of  alarm  that  was  cut  short  in  mid- 
utterance  by  my  sudden  shot.  Down  she  came  with 
a  resounding  splash  that  drove  a  shower  of  glitter- 
ing drops  above  the  rice  tops  and  sent  circling 
wavelets  out  to  greet  us.  If  her  weight  and  mine 
had  been  what  they  seemed  to  me  as  I  lifted  her 
from  the  water,  the  voyage  of  that  old  scow  would 
have  ended  then  and  there  with  a  surging  plunge 
to  the  oozy  bottom. 

The  horde  of  ducks  that  were  wont  to  congre- 
gate in  those  marshes  then  had  that  day  found 
business  or  pleasure  elsewhere,  for  we  saw  but  one 
other,  as  we  rounded  the  bro'ad  marsh  that  west- 
wardly  borders  Horse  Pasture  Point  and  drew 
near  the  mouth  of  the  East  Slang,  that  uprose  a 
long  gunshot  off  with  a  needless  tumult  of  voice 

257 


Hunting   Without   a   Gun. 

and  pinion,  and  flew  straight  away.  The  long  bar- 
rel was  trained  on  her  and  the  trigger  pulled  just 
as  Jule  protested  under  breath,  "Too  far."  But 
down  she  plunged  headlong  into  the  quivering 
sedges,  and  never  in  my  life  was  I  prouder  than 
when  Jule's  impressive  lips  gave  me  the  com- 
mendation, uBy  gosh,  you're  a  cuss  to  shoot," 
though  in  my  heart  I  knew  it  was  but  a  lucky 
chance  that  called  it  forth.  Further  than  this  my 
shot  was  not  rewarded,  for  an  hour's  search  failed 
to  disclose  her  in  that  unmarked  expanse  of  sedges, 
weeds  and  rushes,  and  my  second  duck  was  never 
but  for  a  brief  moment  displayed  as  a  trophy,  but 
went  to  the  nourishment  of  some  prowling  mink  or 
hungry  hawk.  Fortune  -favored  me  that  day  not 
only  in  what  she  gave,  but  in  withholding  an  op- 
portunity of  spoiling  my  record. 

As  soon  as  the  ice  was  out  of  the  East  Slang  the 
flooded  marshes  swarmed  with  muskrats,  for  whose 
sleek  brown  coats,  worth  fifteen  cents  apiece,  we  boys 
>  hungered,  envying  the  trappers  who  took  more  in 
a  night  than  we  in  a  season.  How  persistently  we 
patrolled  the  low  shores  in  quest  of  a  muskrat 
swimming  within  range,  or  resting  on  a  half  sub- 
merged log.  Or,  lying  in  ambush,  we  strove  to 
lure  the  amorous  voyagers  to  death  by  simulating 
their  mating  call,  and  happy  were  we  if  in  a  day 

258 


Cleaning  the  Old  Gun. 

our  frequent  shots  gained  us  one  welcome  prize. 

Then,  too,  in  those  first  days  of  open  water  the 
spawning  pickerel  were  playing,  and  now  and  then 
a  lucky  shot  paralyzed  one,  perhaps  two  or  three, 
and  in  the  roil  our  eager  eyes  would  discover  the 
gleam  of  shining  white  bellies  upturned  to  incite 
us  to  a  splashing  scramble  for  our  prey.  I  confess 
that  all  this  was  unsportsmanlike,  but  it  was  fun, 
and  whoever  has  hunted  muskrats  or  shot  pickerel 
cannot  deny  that  skill  cannot  be  lacking  in  the  suc- 
cessful pursuit  of  the  one  pastime,  nor  that  excite- 
ment attends  the  other. 

John  Wadso,  late  of  St.  Francis,  but  now  with 
his  dusky  fathers  in  the  happy  hunting  grounds, 
told  me  that  a  British  officer  whom  he  accom- 
panied on  a  moose  hunt,  became  so  enthusiastic 
over  the  sport  of  shooting  muskrats  with  his  rifle 
that  he  forgot  the  real  object  of  his  trip,  and  so 
devoted  himself  to  this  accidental  one  that  he 
scared  every  moose  out  of  sight  and  range. 
Furthermore,  in  defense  of  the  other  practice  there 
are  real  sportsmen  who  are  not  above  pickerel 
shooting  when  the  law  does  not  prohibit  it. 

How  distinctly  lies  before  me  the  scene  of  those 
small  adventures  of  youth,  as  if  not  forty  years, 
but  fewer  days,  linked  the  past  to  this  present, 
youth  to  crabbed  age. 

259 


Hunting  Without  a  Gun. 

The  broad  water  rippled  by  the  wind,  flashing  in 
the  sun  and  beating  with  rapid  pulse  against  the 
rustling  drift  of  dead  weeds,  the  crinkled  reflection 
of  tree  and  shore,  and  flash  of  the  starling's  wings, 
an  angler  casting  an  early  worm  to  the  unready 
bullheads,  a  pickerel  shooter  stalking  heron-like 
along  a  distant  shore,  a  trapper  poling  his  cranky 
skiff  along  his  marshy  round,  now  halting  to*  inspect 
a  trap  or  gather  its  lifeless  prey,  or  resting  and 
then  passing  on,  haunting  the  shores  as  silently  as 
a  ghost,  save  when  he  cast  a  trap  and  tally  into  his 
boat  or  chopped  a  new  notch  in  a  log  or  hailed  a 
brother  trapper  to  learn  his  luck. 

As  the  day  waned  and  the  wind  died,  the  still 
water  turned  to  gold  with  the  reflections  of  the  sun- 
set sky,  then  to  a  black  waste  in  the  twilight  of 
shadows,  save  where  the  first  stars  were  mirrored 
or  a  muskrat's  wake  seamed  it  with  a  streak  of 
silver.  Then  as  the  shadow  of  the  world  crept  up 
the  eastern  sky,  the  farmstead  lights  began  to 
twinkle  along  the  distant  highway,  and  our  own 
shone  out  to  guide  us  homeward. 

No  feat  performed  with  the  old  gun  is 
more  vividly  remembered  than  the  killing  of 
my  first  fox.  I  recall  the  even  whiteness  of 
the  snow,  shadowless  under  the  dull  De- 
cember sky,  the  first  burst  of  the  hound's 

260 


Cleaning   the   Old   Gun. 

music,  how  it  came  crashing  nearer,  while  my 
throbbing  heart  beat  time  to  it,  the  glimpse  of  rey- 
narcTs  tawny  fur  flashing  through  the  haze  of 
underbrush,  then  disclosed  for  a  moment  after  my 
hasty  shot,  writhing  in  the  snow,  then  up  and  off, 
at  first  so  slowly  that  I  could  almost  lay  hand  on 
him,  gaining  on  me  till,  as  the  dogs  came  up  and 
passed  me,  he  went  out  of  sight  beyond  a  ridge  and 
left  me  breathless  and  lamenting.  When  my  com- 
panion reached  me  the  woods  were  silent  but  for 
the  voices  of  the  chickadees  that  curiously  attended 
us.  Had  the  dogs  stopped  or  gone  out  of  hearing 
under  the  mountain  side?  Getting  first  to  the 
brink  of  the  cliff  my  friend  looked  down,  then 
shouted  back  to  me,  "They've  got  him!"  and  we, 
with  a  triumphant  cheer,  made  the  woods  ring  with 
wilder  echoes  than  the  hounds  had  awakened. 

How  small  and  to  what  little  purpose  were 
these  achievements  of  our  youthful  ambitions,  and 
yet  how  we  still  glory  in  their  accomplishment.  I 
wonder  if  men  who  have  attained  greatness  do. not 
look  back  to  such  with  a  completer  satisfaction 
than  to  great  and  later  triumphs,  for  success  is  most 
complete  that  brings  most  one's  own  approval,  and 
to  those  was  given  this  reward. 

And  now  the  old  gun  is  consigned  to  its  resting 
place  where  it  was  wont  to  hang  in  its  flint-lock 

261 


Hunting   Without   a   Gun. 

days,  when  I  was  a  bibbed  and  aproned  toddler. 
I  have  grown  garrulous  over  it  as  I  recalled  the 
pleasures  it  has  given  me,  pleasures  that  I  shall 
never  taste  again  but  in  memory.  Often  have  I 
hoped  to  relieve  them  in  some  measure  with  my 
boy,  and  share  with  him  the  triumph  of  his  first 
successful  shot,  but  this  is  denied  me,  groping  in  a 
fog  that  beclouds  aim.  Neither  this  gun  nor  any 
other  shall  I  ever  shoot  again,  nor  if  I  might,  could 
I  find  such  sport  as  was  to  be  had  in  the  day  of  its 
first  use.  There  are  too  many  shooters,  too  little 
cover,  and  yearly  the  horde  of  the  one  increases, 
the  acres  of  the  other  become  fewer,  and  the  game 
laws,  game  preserves  and  game  protectors  cannot 
long  avert  the  day  of  annihilation  or  such  poverty 
of  its  once  populous  haunts  as  to  make  the  pursuit 
of  game  a  weariness  to  the  flesh,  a  vexation  to  the 
spirit. 

Well,  if  I  have  not  had  my  share  I  have  had  my 
opportunity,  and  should  be  satisfied.  It  is  a  won- 
der to  me  to  find  myself,  without  striving  to  reach 
this  comfortable  state  of  mind,  so  content  to  be  de- 
prived of  almost  all  pastimes  once  so  dear  to  me. 

How  few  have  the  years  been  since  I  was  look- 
ing forward  with  impatient  longing  to  this  opening 
day  of  the  season,  whose  sports  I  wras  among  the 
first  to  engage  in  and  the  last  to  relinquish. 

262 


Cleaning  the  Old  Gun. 

To-day  I  hear  the  continuous  fusilade  along  the 
marshes,  but  am  not  cast  down  because  I  cannot 
be  there,  nor  envious  of  those  to  whom  the  day  is 
all  that  it  once  was  to  me. 

The  inexorable  hand  of  time  is  not  altogether 
unkind;  it  wounds,  but  with  a  later  touch  it  heals; 
it  takes  away,  but  in  some  way  makes  compensation. 


203 


GIVEN  AWAY. 


NE  day  in  September,  many  years 
ago,  I  was  hunting  with  very 
poor  success  along  the  border  of 
one  of  the  few  tracts  of  original 
forest  that  then  remained  in  our 
township.  The  glassy  channel 
of  the  Slang,  a  sluggish  watercourse  that  crept 
along  the  edge  of  the  woods,  was  not  wrinkled  by 
the  wake  of  a  solitary  duck,  nor  did  the  farther 
curves  and  reaches  of  Little  Otter  show  more  sign 
of  life.  It  seemed  as  if  the  widespread  bounty  of 
the  rice  marshes  offered  no  attraction  to  the  water- 
fowl, for  I  saw  another  hunter,  a  marsh  hawk, 
commanding  a  far  wider  range  than  I,  beating  the 
broad  levels  with  as  little  success. 

The  skirt  of  the  old  woods  frayed  out  into  a 
fringe  of  brush  and  berry  briers,  ordinarily  the 
haunt  of  ruffed  grouse,  was  to-day  as  deserted  as 
the  marsh.  Now  and  then  a  noisy  jay  or  a  silent 
cedar  bird  flitted  out  of  the  thicket  before  me,  and 
from  the  marsh  on  my  left  arose  at  every  sudden 

264 


Given   dway. 

sound  the  outcry  of  unseen  rail,  but  neither  thicket 
or  fen  offered  anything  that  I  was  in  quest  of. 

Upon  coming  to  the  landing  where  John  Cher- 
bineau's  log  canoe  lay  with  her  nose  upon  the  bank, 
I  took  the  path  which  led  through  the  woods  to  the 
clearing  and  home  of  the  owner  of  the  craft.  Be- 
yond these  a  wood  road,  much  used  in  winter  by 
lumbermen  and  woodsmen,  offered  a  sure  and  easy 
thoroughfare  to  Louis  Creek,  where  I  hoped  to 
find  the  ducks  that  must  be  somewhere.  With  an 
eye  to  a  possible  partridge,  I  cautiously  followed 
the  path,  deep  worn  in  the  mold  by  the  frequent 
feet  of  John  and  his  fat  old  wife,  till  the  sunlit 
clearing  shone  before  me  between  the  dark 
hemlocks. 

Stumps,  young  saplings,  raspberry  and  black- 
berry briers  held  a  far  larger  part  of  the  defor- 
ested acres  than  did  John's  potato  patch  and  corn- 
field, in  the  midst  of  which  stood  the  little  log 
cabin  that,  with  its  whitewashed  walls  and 
notched  eaves,  looked  as  little  native  to  the  soil  as 
its  tenants.  I  had  not  gone  far  toward  it  when  a 
wide-brimmed  straw  hat  appeared  above  the  black- 
berry bushes,  and  as  it  moved  slowly  toward  me  in 
a  halting,  devious  course,  I  discovered  beneath  it 
the  broad,  unctuous  visage  of  John's  "femme." 
Intent  upon  securing  the  last  blackberries  of  the 

265 


Hunting   Without   a   Gun. 

season,  she  was  not  aware  of  me  till  I  called  out  to 
her,  "Good  morning,  Marie.     Where  is  John?" 

My  unexpected  salutation  did  not  startle  her 
from  giving  chief  attention  to  the  heavily-laden 
bush  before  her,  and  her  eyes  and  hands  were  busy 
with  the  berries  while  she  answered:  Good 
mawny!  Mah  man?  Ah  do'  know  'f  'e  ant  peek 
hees  onion.  Ah  do'  know  'f  'e  ant  poun'  baskeet, 
prob'ly.  Yas,  Ah  hear  it,"  and  listening,  my  ear 
caught  the  regular  resonant  strokes  of  splint 
pounding  at  the  farther  edge  of  the  clearing. 

Gathering  and  vending  the  various  kinds  of  wild 
berries  in  their  seasons,  fishing  and  fish  peddling, 
making  baskets  and  braiding  straw  hats  for  the 
neighbors  and  storekeepers  were  the  chief  indus- 
tries of  this  old  couple,  except  when  they  once  set 
forth  on  a  grand  begging  tour,  outfitted  with  horse 
and  cart  and  a  dolorous  fiction  of  sickness  and 
losses  by  fire.  But  they  lacked  one  essential,  a 
numerous,  helpless  progeny,  through  which  to  ap- 
peal to  the  benevolent  public,  for  their  own  chil- 
dren were  all  grown  up  and  scattered,  and  they 
could  borrow  but  two  of  forty  grandchildren,  so 
the  enterprise  failed  and  they  retired  to  private 
life. 

uLots  of  berries,  aren't  there?"  I  remarked, 
with  a  view  to  the  old  wroman's  encouragement. 

266 


Given   Away. 

"Oh,  sang  rouge;  dey  ant  'mos'  any,"  she  de- 
clared, in  face  of  the  evidence  of  laden  bushes  and 
a  basket  almost  full  of  plump,  dead  ripe  blackber- 
ries. uDey  ant  honly  few  for  beegin,  an'  dey  all 
dry  up  'cep'  dees  lee'l  place!" 

I  found  old  John,  the  lean  and  agile  opposite  of 
his  ponderous  spouse,  engaged  in  the  primary  pro- 
cess of  basket  making,  pounding  an  ash  log  and 
stripping  off  the  thin  splints.  After  an  exchange 
of  salutations,  he  asked : 

"Ant  you  fan'  dauk  on  Slang?"  and  when  I 
acknowledged  my  failure,  he  continued:  "Wai, 
sah,  Ah  got  mah  hoP  fusee  feex  over  for  cap  lock, 
an'  you  ant  never  see  for  beat  it  for  keel  dauk,  Ah 
tol'  you.  HoP  Seaver  on  Vau'genn'  he  feex  him, 
an'  las'  week  mah  sonny-law  come  see  me,  an'  he 
say  he  shoot  him  on  board  for  see  how  he  shoot. 
Ah  say,  'Bah  gosh,  no !  we  go  shoot  on  dauk,' 
Wai,  sah,  we  fan'  fav'  black  dauk  roos'  on  de 
water.  Ah  shoot  on  it,  t'ree  come  dead,  two  go 
safe.  Bah  gosh!  It  better  for  shoot  on  black 
dauk  he  was  for  shoot  on  board,  ant  he  ?  You  go 
on  Louis  Creek,  hein?  Wai,  prob'ly  you  fan' 
some,  prob'ly  you  ant.  Ah  do'  know  me." 

With  such  doubtful  encouragement,  I  left  him 
grinding  a  grist  of  greenish-black  home-grown  to- 
bacco for  his  blacker  pipe,  and  as  I  entered  the 

267 


Hunting   Without  a   Gun. 

shady  aisle  of  the  wood  road  I  heard  the  click  of 
flint  and  steel,  the  imperative  smack  of  draft-com- 
pelling lips,  and  then  the  resonant  clangor  of  the 
splint  pounding  resumed  with  renewed  vigor. 

When  this  sound  ceased  my  way  was  in  silence 
but  for  my  own  footsteps  on  the  dry  leaves  of  last 
year  and  the  naked  tree  roots  uncovered  and 
wounded  by  the  lumber  sleds.  These  had  left 
more  living  signs  of  their  passage  in  the  rank  tufts 
of  herdsgrass,  sprung  from  seed  scattered  out  of 
the  teams'  noon  fodder,  and  looking  oddly  out  of 
place  in  the  shade  of  the  ancient  forest,  with 
orchids,  sphagnum,  and  hobblebush  for  nearest 
neighbors. 

The  soft  mold  and  the  edges  of  the  long  mud- 
holes  recorded  the  recent  use  of  the  road  by  some 
natives  of  the  greenwood — lineal  descendants  of 
original  proprietors  whose  title  antedated  royal 
charters  and  grants  of  colonial  governors.  Here 
was  set  down  in  plainest  print  the  passage  of  a 
family  procession  of  raccoons;  there,  in  finer  type, 
the  nightly  wandering  of  a  fox,  and  the  mincing 
morning  walk  of  a  partridge,  whom,  perhaps,  I 
saw  a  little  later.  The  clumsy,  bear-like  tracks  of 
the  raccoons  held  right  on  through  thick  and  thin, 
never  turning  aside  for  puddles  that  the  dainty- 
footed  fox  had  skirted,  though  he  utilized  for 

268 


Given  Away. 

some  distance  the  convenience  of  the  road,  while 
the  partridge  only  picked  her  way  across  this  bar  of 
nakedness  that  chanced  to  lie  in  the  course  of  her 
meandering.  So  each  recorded  not  merely  a  frag- 
ment of  its  life's  history,  but  something  of  its  traits. 
With  thoughts  which  were  but  a  boy's  thoughts, 
not  dwelling  much  on  either,  but  more  on  the  duck 
prospects  of  Louis  Creek,  I  entered  the  deepest 
shade  of  the  hemlocks  where  the  raccoon  family 
had  turned  aside  to  their  home,  and  the  fox  had 
gone  his  pathless  way  into  the  forest  depths,  when 
a  large  bird  flew  noiselessly  downward,  alighted 
in  the  road  not  twenty  yards  before  me,  and  at 
once  began  rapidly  picking  the  leaves  of  some  low 
ground  plants.  The  bird  bore  the  crest,  the  ruff, 
the  broad  tail,  and  the  colors  of  a  ruffed  grouse, 
yet  I  could  scarcely  believe  my  eyes  when  these 
proofs  of  its  identity  were  forced  upon  me,  against 
the  one  fact  of  noiseless  flight  which  was  quite  at 
variance  with  my  previous  experience.  At  any  rate 
it  was  enough  like  a  partridge  to  be  worth  shoot- 
ing, and  to  that  purpose  I  sacrificed  the  rare  oppor- 
tunity of  observing  a  grouse  feeding  undisturbed 
by  the  presence  of  an  enemy.  But  at  my  first 
motion,  slow  and  cautious  as  it  was,  the  alert  bird 
became  aware  of  me,  and  burst  away  with  a  roar 

of  pinions  that  dispelled  the  last  doubt  of  his  per- 

269 


Hunting  Without  a  Gun. 

sonality,  while  with  flurried  aim  my  shot  went  wide 
of  the  vanishing  mark,  and  I  was  served  as  I  de- 
served, though  I  did  not  then  recognize  the  jus- 
tice of  it. 

No  more  grouse  came  to  be  looked  at  as  I  fol- 
lowed the  road  which  led  me,  in  a  long,  irregular 
curve,  among  trees  apparently  as  old  as  the  earth 
they  grew  upon,  to  an  old  clearing,  now  reclothed 
with  a  flourishing  growth  of  gray  birches  and  an 
undergrowth  of  ferns,  save  on  the  smooth  circular 
sites  of  former  coal  pits.  In  one  of  these  scenes  of 
a  past  generation's  labor,  further  memorialized  by 
a  level  sward  of  English  grass  and  clover,  a  fox 
had  made  a  burrow,  and  the  yellow  earth  thrown 
out  at  the  several  entrances  was  mixed  with  frag- 
ments of  charcoal — all  bestrewn  with  the  litter  of 
Madame  Vixen's  kitchen  middens.  Wings  and 
bones  of  wild  and  tame  fowl,  the  shanks  of  a  lamb 
and  pads  of  a  hare,  showed  that  the  provision  for 
her  young  family  had  been  abundant  and  various. 

Here  I  left  the  road  and  attempted  a  short  cut 
to  my  prospective  hunting  ground.  Stooping  to 
avoid  the  numerous  dead  lower  branches  of  the 
birches  as  I  waded  hip-deep  through  the  ferns,  I 
deviated  from  my  intended  course,  but  did  not  be- 
come aware  of  it  until  I  saw  the  sheen  of  water 
close  before  me  beneath  a  patch  of  open  sky.  It 

270 


IT    WAS    THE    DEAD    WATER    OF   AN    OLD    CHANNEL, 


271 


Hunting   Without  a   Gun. 

was  not  the  creek,  but  a  narrower  bit  of  water  quite 
new  to  me,  inclosed  on  one  side  by  a  dense  thicket 
of  button  bushes,  on  the  other  by  a  sloping  bank 
bearing  an  undergrowth  of  alders  and  some  higher 
wood,  most  conspicuous  of  which  were  an  oak  and 
a  lofty  pepperidge.  It  was  the  deadwater  of  an 
old  channel,  but  its  surface  was  stirred  by  some- 
thing which  I  could  not  see  moving  upon  it,  and  I 
crept  cautiously  to  a  point  that  gave  me  a  view  of 
almost  its  whole  length.  What  I  beheld  nearly 
took  my  breath  away.  The  little  lagoon  swarmed 
with  wood  ducks,  some  in  rows  on  the  many  mossy 
old  logs  that  lay  athwart  and  along  it,  some  com- 
fortably asleep,  with  head  indrawn  or  tucked  under 
a  wing,  some  preening  their  gay  plumage,  some 
standing  upright  to  stretch  their  wings,  while  the 
water  was  alive  with  others,  indolently  swimming 
to  and  fro,  seaming  the  duckweed  with  innumer- 
able aqueous  paths,  or  nibbling  the  water,  or 
thrusting  their  heads  beneath  it,  and  all  in  aban- 
donment to  a  perfect  sense  of  security  that  it  was 
cruel  to  disturb. 

No  emotion  of  pity  softened  the  youthful  sav- 
agery of  my  heart.  It  beat  only  with  the  joy  of 
great  discovery — the  chance  of  a  lifetime  that  lay 
before  me.  It  beat  so  vehemently  that  it  is  a  won- 
der I  even  hit  the  pool,  to  say  nothing  .of  hitting 

272 


Given  Away. 

one  of  the  uncounted  dozen  of  ducks  ranged  on  the 
nearest  log,  for  whom  my  aim  was  intended — yet 
I  saw  three  tumble  helplessly  from  their  perch,  and 
when  with  a  roar  of  wings  that  was  like  a  pro- 
longation of  the  report  of  my  gun,  innumerable 
ducks  arose  and  filled  the  air  before  me,  I  fired 
wildly  into  it,  two  more  chance-stricken  victims  of 
the  aimless  shot  plunged  back  into  the  troubled 
water.  The  ducks  seemed  unable  to  realize  that 
this  safe  retreat  had  been  discovered  and  invaded 
by  a  cruel,  relentless  foe,  for  they  continued  to 
circle  and  hover  over  it  till,  with  trembling  hands, 
in  more  haste  than  speed,  I  reloaded  my  gun,  and, 
grown  cool  enough  to  select  single  birds,  brought 
down  one  with  each  barrel. 

Then  the  last  and  boldest  lingerer  reluctantly 
departed,  and  the  silence  of  desertion  fell  upon 
the  place,  except  as  I  splashed  and  poked  about  it 
to  secure  my  game ;  and,  with  a  view  to  future  on- 
slaughts, made  a  path  for  a  stealthy  approach, 
clearing  away  every  sprout  and  dry  twig  that  might 
swish  or  snap  a  signal  of  alarm.  There  was  not  a 
sign  to  show  that  the  place  was  ever  visited  by  any 
one  else,  and  I  congratulated  myself  on  possessing 
sole  knowledge  of  its  existence. 

Many  a  day  thereafter  I  went  to  it  alone, 
guided  from  afar  by  the  oak  and  pepperidge, 

273 


Hunting   Without   a   Gun. 

which,  towering  above  the  second  growth,  were 
unmistakable  landmarks,  whether  in  leafage  of 
green  or  scarlet  and  brown,  or  in  gray  nakedness. 
While  I  kept  my  secret,  seldom  was  a  visit  unre- 
warded by  at  least  one  shot  at  wood  ducks,  or  later 
in  the  season  at  the  larger  and  warier  dusky  ducks, 
which  haunted  the  sequestered  slough  until  it  was 
frozen. 

But  in  an  evil  hour  I  disclosed  it,  under  promise 
of  secrecy,  to  a  faithless  friend  after  an  unsuccess- 
ful day  with  him  on  the  two  creeks.  It  was  not 
long  before  the  path  was  worn  by  the  frequent 
tread  of  other  feet  than  mine,  and  ducks  began  to 
be  shy  of  a  retreat  that  no  longer  promised  rest 
and  safety.  In  two  years  it  was  common  to  every 
gunner  in  the  neighborhood,  and  worth  no  one's 
while  to  visit. 

As  one  still  searches  for  something  lost  past  all 
hope  of  finding,  so  was  I  now  and  then  drawn 
thither,  but  never  to  find  more  than  a  solitary 
heron  standing  like  a  gray  statue  in  the  desolate 
slough,  or  a  lone  sandpiper  skirting  the  low  shore, 
or  perchance  a  muskrat  channeling  the  duckweed 
with  his  silent  wake.  I  had  given  away  my  dis- 
covery only  to  have  it  made  worthless. 


274 


A  LAY   SERMON. 

|H  AT  EVER  the  sportsman's 
creed,  it  is  profitable  for  him  to 
consider  diligently  the  thirteenth 
chapter  of  Corinthians,  wherein 
the  excellence  of  charity  is  so 
beautifully  set  forth;  for  no  man 
more  than  he  who  goeth  a-field  should  cherish  this 
virtue.  He  suffereth  long  and  much,  of  travel,  of 
extortionate  baggage  men,  uncivil  conductors,  and 
miserable  quarters,  of  unprofitable  tramps,  in 
storm  and  heat  and  cold,  of  short  hours  of  sleep 
and  early  hours  of  waking — all  this  he  should  en- 
dure in  kindness ;  and  of  whom  more  than  of  him 
should  it  be  said  that  he  envieth  not,  vaunteth  not 
himself,  is  not  puffed  up  ? 

Let  him  also  have  charity  for  all  his  brethren, 
though  some  of  them  exalt  the  muzzleloader  above 
the  breechloader,  or  hold  that  it  is  as  fair  to  shoot 
one  wary  bird  sitting  as  another,  no  worse  to  lure 
a  bird  than  a  beast  as  big  as  a  horse  with  a  feigning 
of  its  call,  nor  to  shoot  the  cunningest  of  animals 
before  hounds  than  it  is  the  most  timid  and  silliest 
of  them. 

275 


Hunting  Without  a   Gun. 

Let  not  him  who  esteems  no  fish  but  the  salmon 
and  the  trout  worthy  the  angler's  skill,  revile  either 
him  who  is  content  with  the  bass,  the  pike-perch 
and  the  pickerel;  or  him  who,  when  other  fishing 
fails,  is  happy  with  the  perch  and  the  sunfish  in  his 
creel,  or,  at  a  pinch,  the  ignoble  bullhead.  The 
salmon  is  but  for  the  few,  and  the  trout  swims  not 
in  every  stream.  Because  thou  art  fortunate,  shall 
there  be  no  fishing  for  the  less  favored  ones? 

He  shall  rejoice  not  in  iniquity,  but  in  the  truth, 
and  as  nearly  as  it  is  possible  for  a  shooter  or  an 
angler  to  do  so.  When  he  giveth  his  account  of 
hits,  let  not  his  memory  fail  concerning  the  misses 
— and  in  his  fish  stories,  let  him  not  boast  of 
pounds  when  in  truth  there  were  only  ounces.  As 
he  hopes  to  be  believed,  so  he  should  believe  all 
things.  Certainly  he  should  ever  behave  himself 
seemly  for  the  honor  of  his  craft,  and  be  not  easily 
provoked,  for  with  loss  of  temper  comes  loss  of 
judgment  and  unsteadiness  of  hand,  and  the  firm 
control  of  these  is  the  true  secret  of  the  successful 
shooter  and  angler.  Verily,  if  one  hath  not 
charity,  which  is  greater  than  faith  and  hope,  he  is 
not  the  man  with  whom  one  would  enjoy  most  a 
day  in  the  forest,  or  along  the  stream,  or  an  even- 
ing beside  the  camp-fire  after  the  well-spent  day. 


276 


A  LITTLE   STORY. 


NE  day,  when  spring  had  fairly 
made  its  presence  known  by  the 
softness  of  the  south  wind,  and 
by- 

"The  bluebird  shifting  his  light  load  of  song 
From  post  to  post  along  the  cheerless  fence" 


of  northern  fields,  and  by  the  robin  tuning  his  pipe 
where  it  had  long  been  unheard,  a  pair  of  wood 
ducks  came  flying  northward,  and  after  some  care- 
ful viewing  from  above  of  a  certain  wood-bordered 
stream,  settled  in  its  waters.  The  male  was  in 
brave  apparel,  which  he  had  donned  in  the  south- 
ern swamp,  where  he  had  spent  the  winter  and 
wooed  his  mate,  and  her  dress,  though  less  gaudy 
than  his,  was  rich  and  beautiful.  In  fact,  they 
were  on  their  wedding  journey,  and  in  search  of  a 
summer  home.  The  little  river  had  just  cleared 
itself  of  ice  and  was  flowing  between  brimming 
banks  with  many  water  maples  bending  over  it, 
their  buds  grown  crimson  with  renewing  life.  The 
blackbirds  were  gurgling  so-  joyfully  in  the  trees, 

277 


Hunting  Without   a   Gun. 

the  muskrats  swam  so  boldly  forth  to  their  love- 
making  and  food-getting,  and  the  turtles  basked  in 
the  sunshine  on  the  logs  so  lazily  that  it  seemed 
as  if  bird  and  beast  and  reptile  might  live  here 
undisturbed  through  all  the  live  months  with  none 
to  make  them  afraid  but  the  hawk  and  the  mink. 
Hard  by  was  a  great  marsh  that  gave  promise  of 
wild  rice  in  August  and  September,  and  the  four 
sharp  eyes  of  the  ducks  discovered  a  hollow  tree,  in 
which  a  big  woodpecker  some  seasons  before  had 
chiseled  a  doorway  to  as  snug  a  home  as  they  could 
wish.  Taking  all  things  into  account,  they  felt 
sure  they  could  not  better  themselves,  and  at  once 
set  about  making  their  home. 

A  few  days  later,  while  they  were  resting  from 
their  labors  and  taking  a  comfortable  bath,  they 
heard  an  unwonted  crashing  among  the  under- 
brush, and  presently  a  boy  appeared  on  the  bank 
a  few  rods  above  them.  He  bore  an  iron  tube 
some  feet  longer  than  himself,  and  after  groping 
down  the  stream  a  minute  he  discovered  them  and 
pointed  it  in  their  direction.  If  they  had  known 
anything  about  telescopes  they  might  have  thought 
this  was  one,  from  the  time  it  was  held  toward 
them.  But  at  last  it  belched  forth  fire  and  smoke 
and  thunder,  and  something  went  hurtling  over 
their  heads  with  a  sound  as  ominous  as  the 

278 


A   Little   Story. 

whistling  of  a  hawk's  wings.  They  swam  away 
into  a  secret  place  as  fast  as  their  paddles  would 
take  them,  and  left  the  boy  there  lamenting  and 
using  some  strange  language  concerning  his  inno- 
cent gun. 

The  next  day  they  ventured  forth  to  feed  and 
bathe,  but  soon  had  their  suspicions  aroused  by  a 
slight  rustling  in  the  bushes  some  ten  rods  away, 
and  swam  away  from  the  source  of  alarm  with 
moderate  speed.  They  had  not  gone  ten  feet  be- 
fore there  was  fire  and  smoke  and  thunder  again, 
more  terrific  than  before,  for  it  was  instantly  re- 
peated, and  the  water  just  behind  them  was  torn 
by  a  shower  of  the  fiercest  hail  they  had  ever 
known.  Then  uprose  a  hat,  and  under  it  a  man, 
and  they  heard  him  say,  savagely,  "Something  or 
other  the  luck"  or  "the  ducks,"  they  were  not  sure 
which.  Notwithstanding  these  disturbances  they 
kept  on  making  ready  for  housekeeping. 

One  day,  while  madam  was  inside  giving  the 
last  touches  to  the  nest  with  some  feathers  of  her 
own  breast,  her  lord,  sitting  outside  on  a  branch, 
keeping  watch  and  ward,  saw  a  man  splashing 
through  the  neighboring  marsh,  and  just  before 
him  a  dog.  Presently  the  dog  stood  still,  with  one 
fore  foot  raised  and  his  body  as  rigid  as  the  limb 
on  which  the  wood  drake  was  sitting.  Then  the 

279 


Hunting  Without   a   Gun. 

man  walked  up,  cautiously,  behind  him,  and  two 
little  snipe  flew  up  before  the  dog.  The  man 
threw  up  to  his  face  the  iron  tube,  which  all  man- 
kind seemed  to  be  carrying,  and  before  the  fire  and 
smoke  down  came  the  two  poor  snipe,  one  killed 
outright  and  the  other  fluttering  through  the  dead 
sedges  with  a  broken  wing.  They  were  acquaint- 
ances of  the  wood  drake,  and  he  knew  that  they 
were  intending  to  summer  in  the  neighborhood  of 
the  marsh.  After  the  sportsman  had  brought 
down  the  two  birds,  his  iron  tube  seemed  to  be 
broken  close  to  the  end  nearest  to  him,  and  he  was 
very  busy  with  it  for  a  minute,  so  that  the  wood 
drake  began  to  think  there  would  be  nothing  more 
to  fear  from  him. 

But  he  soon  came  their  way  with  that  death- 
dealing  engine  of  his  in  perfect  trim  again.  So  the 
drake  sounded  his  warning  note,  "O-eek!  O-eek!" 
and  madam  scrambled  out  of  the  tree  and  they 
both  set  forth  on  wing,  and  each  urged  the  other  to 
put  the  best  quill  forward.  Then  there  were  two 
flashes  of  lightning  and  two  clouds  of  smoke  and 
two  thunderous  reports,  and  the  drake  lost  the 
brightest  feather  of  his  crest,  and  the  duck  a  quill 
from  her  wing,  which  went  floating  down  the  air 
behind  them. 

They  decided  that  there  was  no  safety  for  them 
280 


A   Little   Story. 

here,  and  that  they  would  tempt  fate  no  further, 
having  luckily  escaped  the  boy,  the  pot-hunter,  and 
the  wing  sportsman.  So  they  deserted  the  home 
which  promised  to  be  so  pleasant,  and  began  anew 
by  a  stream  which  ran  through  a  Canadian  forest 
where  no  gunner  ever  came.  There  they  reared  a 
family  of  fourteen,  and  in  the  fall  took  most  of 
them  safely  back  to  the  South. 

There  were  no  ducks  in  the  stream  they  left  in 
April,  till  October,  whereas,  except  for  the  shooters 
who  got  only  two  snipe  and  two  feathers,  there 
might  have  been  sixteen  plump  wood  ducks  on  the 
first  of  September. 

There  is  a  double  moral  to  this  little  story;  one 
for  the  wood  ducks  and  one  for  the  sportsman.  So 
far  only  the  wood  ducks  seem  to  have  profited  by  it. 


281 


A  THANKSGIVING  DINNER  IN  THE 
WOODS. 


S  Thanksgiving  draws  near,  I  am 
reminded  how  we  boys  were 
wont  to  spend  the  day  in  the 
times  when  each  Governor  inde- 
pendently exercised  the  right  of 
his  sovereignty  in  appointing  for 
the  feast  whatever  day  it  pleased  him.  Then  the 
holiday  was  likely  enough  to  dribble  through  the 
several  commonwealths  during  the  whole  of  No- 
vember and  over  into  December,  so  that  if  one's 
kinsfolks  were  properly  distributed  he  might  have 
the  luck  to  eat  three  or  four  Thanksgiving  dinners 
in  one  year.  But  we  wildwoods  ranging  boys  were 
lucky  if  we  got  more  than  the  cold  remnants  of 
one  at  eventide,  or  rather  were  apt  to  count  our- 
selves unlucky  if  we  were  obliged  to  waste  a  rare 
holiday  in  idle  home-staying  and  mere  gorging. 
Better  a  crust  in  the  woods  and  contentment  there- 
with than  a  stuffed  turkey  in  a  house  with  continual 
longing  to  be  abroad.  So  if  the  morning  was  not 

282 


A    Thanksgiving   Dinner   in    the    Woods. 

too  stormy,  our  company  was  pretty  sure  to  muster 
at  some  convenient  central  point,  each  member  pro- 
vided with  a  pocketable  scant  ration  of  bread  and 
butter  and  a  little  salt,  and  each  armed  with  a  gun 
of  some  sort,  upon  which  we  depended  for  game 
to  eke  out  our  stores.  Sometimes  good  fortune 
more  than  skill  gave  us  a  partridge  or  a  hare,  and 
we  feasted  savagely,  but  if  only  squirrels  furnished 
our  roast  we  were  quite  content,  and  scoffed  at 
home  dainties. 

Thus  we  met  on  one  Thanksgiving  morn- 
ing, a  particularly  cold  and  sour  one,  with  a 
chilling  northerly  air  astir  and  a  gray,  sunless  sky 
that  boded  snow,  but  since  we  had  got  away  from 
home  before  it  snowed,  and  now  had  the  freedom 
of  the  woods  for  the  whole  day,  we  were  not  great- 
ly dissatisfied.  There  were  four  of  us — George, 
nicknamed  Apple  Tree,  for  some  unknown  cause; 
Charley,  called  Spry  because  he  was  not;  Lias,  re- 
christened  Ben  Hardin,  after  Davy  Crockett's 
comrade;  and  another,  hailed  as  Little  Man,  be- 
cause his  father  so  called  him  when  he  had  grown 
so  tall  that  the  pet  name  was  ridiculous. 

"Well,  our  ol'  Gov'nor  do'  know  much," 
George  remarked.  ujust  look  what  a  Thanksgiv- 
ing the  Gov'nor  o'  York  State  picked  out  last  week, 
right  in  Injin  summer." 

283 


Hunting  Without   a   Gun. 

"Guess  our  Gov'nor  wouldn't  have  us  Green 
Mountain  boys  givin'  thanks  the  same  day  York 
State  was." 

uOh,  this  is  good  enough  day  for  us,"  Lias 
shouted,  in  the  joy  of  freedom  from  work. 

"Oumph!"  Charley  grunted,  as  he  tumbled  over 
a  cradle  knoll,  and  the  grunt  passed  as  a  remark 
that  might  be  taken  either  way. 

The  hemlock  woods  were  gloomy  and  solemn 
enough  to  have  awed  any  one  of  us  had  he  been 
alone,  but  as  we  were,  we  broke  their  brooding 
silence  with  merry  gabble  and  laughter,  until  a 
frightened  partridge,  bursting  to  flight  unseen  and 
far  out  of  range,  made  us  aware  that  game  was  not 
to  be  got  by  such  noisy  stalking.  Then  we  sepa- 
rated and  hunted  more  stealthily,  each  imagining 
himself  a  Leather  Stocking  or  a  Last  Mohican. 
We  gained  nothing  from  it  but  a  conviction  that 
the  partridge  was  the  last  of  its  kind  to  depart  to 
some  place  distant  and  unknown,  where  perhaps 
all  the  tribe  had  gathered  to  celebrate  the  day  in 
safe  sequestration. 

To  such  remoteness,  too,  the  hares  and  the  squir- 
rels seemed  to  have  betaken  themselves.  Not  one 
timid,  crouching  form,  conspicuous  in  winter  dis- 
guise on  the  brown  floor  of  the  woods,  not  one 
savory  tawny-coated  fugitive  darting  up  a  gray 

284 


A    Thanksgiving   Dinner   in    the    Woods. 

trunk  or  cocked  on  a  horizontal  branch,  was  to  be 
seen  anywhere.  Apparently  the  woods  were  de- 
serted by  all  but  us  and  one  uneatable  old  horned 
owl,  a  hermit,  whom  we  came  upon  moping  in  the 
dim  shadow  of  an  evergreen.  At  last  Lias  did  by 
some  chance  find  and  slaughter  one  red  squirrel. 

It  was  past  noon,  and  we  dressed  our  meager 
quarry  and  prepared  for  its  roasting  a  most  dispro- 
portionately generous  fire  on  an  old  coal-pit  bot- 
tom, where  there  was  no  danger  of  setting  the 
woods  afire.  Poor  little  fellow,  he  looked  lone- 
some enough,  impaled  on  his  roasting  stakes,  tilted 
against  the  great  fire,  and  exceedingly  small,  con- 
sidering a  quarter  to  each  of  four  hungry  boys. 
Charley  grunted  and  gave  other  audible  expression 
to  his  longing  for  the  flesh  pots  of  home,  but  his 
jolly  brother,  Lias,  declared  that  enough  was  as 
good  as  a  feast,  and  for  his  part  he  was  not  meat 
hungry,  while  I,  though  sharing  the  grumbler's 
feelings,  admired  his  brother's  cheerful  philosophy. 

George,  the  bravest  hunter  of  us  all,  had  some 
time  since  gone  aloof  from  us,  according  to  his 
wont,  and  now  we  heard  the  unmistakable  voice  of 
the  long  gun  away  over  toward  Louis  Creek — the 
lucky  old  gun  which  his  grandfather  had  brought 
from  Rhode  Island,  and  had  killed  a  deer  with  at 
Thompson's  Point,  and  with  which  one  uncle  had 

285 


Hunting  Without  a  Gun. 

killed  an  otter  in  Louis  Creek,  and  another  a  silver- 
gray  fox  on  Mount  Philo ;  and  still  something  was 
sure  to  come  down  when  that  old  gun  spoke.  With 
one  accord  we  lifted  up  our  voices,  and  with  a  great 
shout  called  George  to  a  very  small  dinner.  Then 
we  turned  the  squirrel,  and  each  took  a  sniff  at  the 
fragrance  that  made  us  hungrier,  and  sat  waiting, 
deploring  the  scarcity  of  game  in  that  too  thickly 
settled  country,  and  unanimously  agreeing  that  we 
would  go  to  the  wildest  West  as  soon  as  we  got  old 
enough.  By  and  by,  George  silently  materialized 
out  of  the  shadows  of  the  woods",  bearing  two 
skinny  things  headless  and  footless. 

"What  be  they,  Apple  Tree?"  Lias  asked. 

"I'll  tell  you  when  weVe  eat  'em,"  he  answered. 

"Mushrat,  I'll  bet,"  Charley  ventured  disgust- 
edly, for  his  palate  was  not  yet  educated  to  that 
delicacy. 

"D'ye  ever  see  a  two-legged  mushrat?"  George 
asked,  exhibiting  the  evidence  in  a  pair  of  legs  and 
a  pair  of  wings  to  each  of  his  trophies. 

"They  hain't  crows,  be  they?"  Lias  asked, 
suspiciously. 

"You  don't  suppose  I'd  eat  crows,  an'  I'm 
a-goin'  to  eat  some  o'  these,"  George  answered, 
settling  that  question. 

So  without  further  spoken  objection  the  un- 
286 


A    Thanksgiving  Dinner   in    the   Woods. 

known  fowl  were  spitted,  basted  with  butter 
scraped  from  our  bread,  while  they  had  timely 
turns  over  the  glowing  coals.  After  what  seemed 
an  unnecessarily  long  time,  they  were  pronounced 
done  by  Charley,  who  was  always  cook,  and  who 
made  the  best  johnnycakes  I  ever  ate  since  my 
grandmother's,  which  were  baked  on  a  board. 
Then  the  birds  were  served  upon  birch  bark,  with 
abundant  Spartan  sauce,  which  had  been  for  hours 
accumulating,  and  we  fell  to,  tooth,  nail,  and  jack- 
knife.  The  first  and  last  could  not  well  be  too 
sharp  for  the  service  required,  for  the  meat  was  in- 
ordinately tough,  and  the  sauce  could  not  quite  dis- 
guise a  certain  rank  and  suspiciously  fish-like  flavor. 
Nevertheless  we  made  away  with  them  down  to  the 
bones,  and  as  we  polished  these  we  demanded  of 
George  the  name  of  the  original  owners. 

"Well,"  he  answered,  as  he  tossed  a  scoured 
thigh  bone  into  the  fire,  "they  was  sheldrake." 

"Oumph,"  Charley  groaned,  rather  than 
grunted,  for  he  was  fastidious. 

"Well,  by  grab,  sheldrake  is  almighty  good/' 
Lias  declared. 

Dear  comrades  of  that  happy  day,  how  are  you 
scattered  about  the  wide  and  dreary  world,  and  out 
of  it.  How  long  ago,  yet  what  a  little  while  since 
we  feasted  on  flesh  and  fowl,  and  were  thankful. 

287 


A  VIS-A-VIS  WITH  A  PANTHER. 


UR  camp-fire  was  blazing  bright- 
ly, its  hot  breath  weirdly  tossing 
the  hemlock  branches  above  it 
while  we  sat  around  it  enjoying 
its  genial  glow  and  the  rest  that 
comes  so  gratefully  to  tired  men 
after  the  fatigue  and  excitement  of  the  chase.  One 
and  another  recounted  his  experiences  of  the  day, 
embellished  with  all  the  trivial  incidents  that  only 
the  sportsman  cares  to  tell  or  listen  to.  Ned  Wil- 
marth,  the  youngest  of  the  party,  had  just  told  of 
some  curious  tracks  that  he  had  seen  on  the  sandy 
bank  of  the  stream  where  he  was  watching  a  run- 
way for  deer. 

"They  look  like  cat  tracks  in  shape,"  he  said, 
"but  are  as  large  as  my  hand." 

Some  one  suggested  they  might  have  been  made 
by  a  panther,  when  the  conversation  drifted  to 
facts  and  speculations  concerning  that  animal, 
whether  its  oft-repeated  scream  was  a  myth,  and 
whether  it  had  ever  been  known,  when  unwounded, 
to  attack  man. 

288 


A  Vu-a-Vis   with   a  Panther. 

"Well."  said  Captain  Burton,  the  most  expe- 
rienced hunter  of  the  party  except  the  guide,  "I 
cannot  say  positively  that  a  panther  will  attack  a 
man  unprovoked,  though  I  thought  one  day  I  was 
about  to  have  it  proved  to  me  that  he  would." 

There  was  a  unanimous  call  for  the  story  of  this 
experience,  and  a  general  stir  of  interest  as  the 
Captain  knocked  the  ashes  from  his  pipe  and  set- 
tled himself  comfortably  to  tell  it. 

"You  may  not  think  it  worth  hearing,  since  I 
am  here  to  tell  it,  but  the  way  of  it  was  this :  It 
was  a  hot,  droughty  day  in  September  when  I  was 
hunting  partridges.  I  was  having  such  poor  luck 
that  when  I  had  got  two  birds  I  was  so  thirsty  and 
tired  I  was  glad  enough  to  come  to  a  brook  whose 
current,  shrunken  as  it  was  by  the  drought,  yet  ran 
cool  in  the  thick  shade  of  the  evergreens  that 
clothed  its  banks. 

"I  took  a  good  draught  from  a  rocky  basin  and 
sat  down  on  a  mossy  log  to  rest  and  smoke.  I  was 
cheated  of  perfect  rest  in  spite  of  the  refreshing 
coolness  and  the  softness  of  my  seat,  for  I  had 
scarcely  taken  the  first  whiff  at  my  pipe  when  I  be- 
gan to  feel  an  unaccountable  uneasiness,  a  dread  of 
some  impending  evil,  an  oppressive  sense  of  some 
unseen,  baleful  presence. 

"I  suppose  you  have  all  experienced  the  same 
289 


Hunting  Without  a  Gun. 

feelings  and  generally  found  them  unfounded  in 
anything  tangible.  No  calamity  befell  you,  no  evil 
presence  manifested  itself  before  you.  I  recol- 
lected such  impressions  of  my  own,  and  argued 
with  myself  that  these  were  as  baseless. 

UI  scanned  the  thicket  all  about  me,  and  listened 
intently.  Not  an  animate  object  was  visible,  not 
a  sound  was  to  be  heard  but  the  monotonous  trickle 
of  the  attenuated  brook  and  the  occasional  stir  of 
the  almost  stagnant  air  among  the  tree-tops.  In 
spite  of  these  proofs  of  its  causelessness,  I  couldn't 
banish  uneasiness  and  was  strongly  impelled  to 
leave  a  place  that  seemed  pervaded  with  an  evil 
atmosphere. 

"Ashamed  to  yield  to  so  cowardly  an  impulse, 
and  to  confess  myself  unable  to  cope  with  mere 
nervousness,  I  resolved  to  overcome  it  and  enjoy 
my  promised  rest  and  smoke.  So  I  stretched  my- 
self at  length  on  the  mossy  cushion  of  the  log  and 
tried  to  lull  myself  to  drowsiness. 

"The  soothing  sound  of  the  trickling  water  and 
the  sighing  breeze,  the  lazy  upward  drift  of  the 
smoke  that  I  watched  through  half-closed  lids,  dis- 
solving among  the  knotted  branches,  were  making 
some  impression  on  my  strained  senses,  when  sud- 
denly the  monotone  of  the  brook  was  broken  by  the 
sharp  clatter  of  a  pebble  and  the  sound  of  quick 

290 


A  Vis-a-Vis   with  a  Panther. 

lapping  of  water,  coming  from  a  little  distance 
above  me. 

"Springing  to  a  sitting  posture  and  looking  in 
the  direction,  I  saw  an  enormous  panther,  not  more 
than  fifty  feet  from  me.  My  movement  had  evi- 
dently first  disclosed  me  to  him,  and  for  a  moment 
he  regarded  me  with  a  surprise  as  great  as  my  own, 
while  the  dribble  of  his  interrupted  draught 
dripped  from  his  thick  under  lip.  Then  his  mouth 
opened  and  closed  as  if  shaping  an  unvoiced  cry, 
just  as  you  have  seen  domestic  cats  do,  and  then  he 
advanced  a  few  steps  and  crouched  down,  still  in- 
tently regarding  me  and  nervously  gathering  his 
hinder  feet  under  him  as  if  for  a  spring. 

"I  caught  up  my  gun  without  taking  my  eyes 
from  him,  and  cocked  both  barrels.  They  were 
loaded  with  No.  6  shot,  insignificant  and  ineffectual 
missiles  against  so  formidable  a  beast,  but  they 
might  blind  him,  I  thought,  if  I  could  shoot 
straight  and  quick  enough  as  he  sprang. 

"And  there  we  sat  staring  at  each  other,  I  doing 
my  best  to  exert  the  alleged  power  of  the  human 
eye  to  quell  the  wild  beast;  he  evidently  deter- 
mined not  to  let  a  motion  of  mine  escape  him. 

"So  we  remained  for  what  it  seemed  to  me  an 
interminable  time ;  to  tell  the  truth,  I  was  terribly 
afraid,  though  I  believe  I  was  cool  and  felt  a 

291 


Hunting   Without   a   Gun. 

kind  of  curiosity  as  to  how  the  affair  would  end. 

"If  I  took  my  pipe  from  my  mouth  or  brushed  a 
fly  from  my  face,  his  eyes  followed  every  move- 
ment, though  he  kept  quite  motionless,  except  a  con- 
tinual slow  lashing  of  his  tail,  while  I  kept  my  eyes 
as  steadily  on  his  as  their  shifting  glances  would 
let  me. 

"I  noted  the  shadows  slowly  lengthening  on  the 
pebbly  bed  of  the  shrunken  brook,  and  wondered 
if  the  panther  had  a  purpose  of  holding  me  at  bay 
till  nightfall  put  me  at  his  mercy. 

uThen  a  partridge  came  hurtling  past  me  from 
beyond  the  position  of  my  unpleasant  vis-a-vis,  evi- 
dently in  affrighted  flight.  I  could  see  out  of  the 
corner  of  my  left  eye  that  the  bird  offered  a  beauti- 
ful cross  shot  as  he  went  past  me.  Then  came  an- 
other and  another  in  similar  startled  flight.  Then 
a  hare  scurried  by,  and  a  panting  woodchuck  came 
shuffling  down  the  bed  of  the  brook  without  heed- 
ing me,  though  he  passed  within  reach  of  my  gun 
barrels. 

"I  was  confusedly  speculating  on  the  cause  of 
this  general  alarm  of  the  wood  folk  when  the  rid- 
dle was  solved  by  a  strong  smell  of  smoke  drifting 
into  my  face  with  the  freshening  breeze.  The 
woods  were  on  fire,  and  the  flames  were  sweeping 
down  upon  me ! 

292 


A  Vis-a-Vis  with  a  Panther. 

"I  was  conscious  of  some  satisfaction  in  the 
thought  that  they  must  first  reach  my  unwelcome 
visitor.  Almost  at  the  same  moment  he  seemed  to 
become  aware  of  the  common  danger.  He  cast  a 
quick  glance  behind  him,  another  on  me,  and  arose 
to  his  feet  with  the  lithe,  instantaneous  movement 
of  the  cat  kind.  He  looked  behind  him  again,  and 
then,  with  constant  sidelong  regard  of  me,  began 
to  move  slowly  away,  well  to  one  side  of  me,  just 
as  you  have  seen  a  tom-cat  retire  from  a  blood- 
less encounter  of  brag  and  bluster.  So  he  slid 
deviously  out  of  sight,  but  had  hardly  disappeared 
when  I  heard  him  retreating  with  rapid  leaps. 

"I  lost  no  time  in  following  his  example  to  the 
best  of  my  ability.  I  heard  the  flames  roaring  and 
crackling  behind  me,  and  felt  their  hot  breath  on 
my  neck  as  I  ran  down  the  brook  at  the  best  speed 
I  could  make.  Half  an  hour  later  I  was  safe  in  the 
midst  of  cleared  fields." 

"I'll  bet  a  cooky  he  wouldn't  never  ha'  teched  ye 
of  there  hedn't  be'n  no  fire,"  said  our  guide,  pok- 
ing a  long  splinter  into  the  fire  to  get  a  light  for 
his  pipe. 

"Considering  the  stake  you  wager,"  the  Captain 
said,  when  he  had  lighted  his  pipe  with  the  same 
torch,  "I  don't  care  to  take  the  bet  and  have  it  de- 
cided by  my  own  experience." 

293 


A   VERMONT    RATTLESNAKE. 


|EY?  Didn't  s'pose  the'  was  any 
rattlesnakes  in  Vermont?"  said 
Dan'l,  as  loudly  as  if  he  was 
talking  to  himself,  and  turning 
his  best  ear  to  me.  I  signaled  a 
negative,  and  he  continued  in 
undiminished  volume : 

"Good  land,  yes !  The'  use'  t'  be  lots  of  'em  on 
the  Barnum  Hill,  so  I've  hearn  oF  folks  tell,  and 
the's  been  some  killed  there  since  I  can  remember. 
"Why,  one  day  in  harvestin'  I  was  goin'  'long 
the  road  towards  the  house,  an'  I  see  what  I 
thought  was  a  snake  a-layin'  'crost  the  road,  clean 
acrost  both  wheel  tracks,  an',  by  George !  when  I 
cum  clus  tew,  it  was  a  tormented  great  blacksnake. 
I  got  me  a  stake  out  o'  a  fence  an'  killed  it,  an'  it 
measured  six  foot.  That  was  consid'able  of  a 
snake  for  this  northern  country." 

"But  it  wasn't  a  rattlesnake,"  said  the  listener. 

"Well,  I  was  goin'  to  tell  ye.    Levi  Fuller  had  a 

piece  o'  wheat  ready  to  cut  an'  wanted  me  to  cradle 


204 


A   Vermont  Rattlesnake. 

it  for  him.  I  was  a  pooty  good  hand  with  a  cradle 
in  them  days.  So  we  ground  up  the  cradle  scythe, 
an1  I  went  at  it  an'  he  follered  me  up  a-rakin'  an' 
bindin'.  It  was  the  next  day  after  I  killed  that 
blacksnake  an'  my  head  was  full  o'  snakes." 

uNone  in  your  boots,  Dan'l?" 

"No,  sir;  I  never  indulged.  Well,  I  hadn't 
cradled  more  'n  half  way  acrost  the  piece  afore  I 
heard  a  kind  o'  sharp  buzzin'  sort  of  a  noise  just 
ahead  of  me,  an'  I  stood  right  still  an'  begin  to 
look,  an',  by  George !  there  I  see  a  snake  kinked 
along  'mongst  the  wheat,  with  his  head  raised  up  a 
little  mite,  not  quiled  up  rattlesnake  fashion;  but 
I  knew  he  was  one,  for  he  was  all  spotted,  an'  that 
buzzin'  noise  kepr  a-goin'  all  the  time,  the  wheat 
a-wigglin'  right  where  the  sound  come  from. 

"You'd  better  b'lieve  I  backed  off  pretty  lively, 
but  mighty  careful.  I  hollered  to  Levi  to  come 
there,  an'  I  as'd  him  if  that  wa'n't  a  rattlesnake, 
for  I  knew  he'd  know,  'cause  he'd  killed  'em. 

"He  stood  off  quite  respectful,  but  he  looked  at 
it  hard.  'Yes,'  says  he,  'that  'ere's  a  rattlesnake, 
sartain.' 

"Well,  we  held  a  council  of  war,  an'  the  upshot 
was,  Levi  put  for  the  house  to  git  his  gun  'at  had 
been  loaded  for  woodchuck  all  summer,  an'  I  staid 
an'  watched  the  snake,  but  the  snake  didn't  stir 

295 


Hunting  Without   a   Gun. 

none  to  speak  of  'fore  Levi  got  back,  all  out  o' 
breath. 

uWe  made  up  our  minds  we  hadn't  better  de- 
pend altogether  on  the  gun,  seein'  we  hadn't  but 
one  charge,  so  I  got  me  a  good  oak  stake  out  o'  the 
fence,  an'  crep'  up,  whilst  Levi  stood  ready  to  give 
him  a  shot  if  I  didn't  lay  him  out.  Well,  I  up 
with  my  club  an'  let  the  snake  have  it  right  on  the 
head.  Levi  stood  squintin'  along  the  gun,  with  his 
finger  on  the  tricker.  The'  was  a  locus'  riz  up  an' 
went  off  snappin'  his  wings,  but  the  snake  only  kind 
o'  flopped  up  an'  lay  stiff  as  a  maggit." 

"Killed  him  the  first  lick,  didn't  ye,  Dan'l?" 
"Good  land,  no !     'T  wa'n't  nothin'  but  a  butt'- 
nut  root — but  it  was  the  nighest  I  ever  come  to 
seein'  a  wil'  rattlesnake." 


296 


SAVED   BY  AN   ENEMY. 

OHN  GARDENER  hunted  and 
trapped  in  the  Adirondacks  in 
the  fall  of  1868,  following  one 
pursuit  for  sport  and  the  other 
for  profit — with  considerable 
success  in  both — when  he  met 
with  a  singular  adventure.  He  lived  alone  in  an 
open-fronted  log  shanty  on  Otter  Pond,  in  what 
was  then  one  of  the  wildest  parts  of  the  region — 
though  a  smart  hotel  now  occupies  the  very  site  of 
his  rude  shelter,  and  swarms  of  fashionable  tourists 
have  spoiled  the  neighborhood  for  one  who  loves 
the  solitude  of  nature. 

The  moose,  shyest  denizen  of  the  forest,  had 
not  entirely  forsaken  the  place,  for  his  broad  foot- 
prints were  yet  occasionally  seen  in  the  deep  moss, 
while  the  long  howl  of  the  wolf  and  the  panther's 
scream  were  heard  often  enough  to  account  for  the 
scarcity  of  deer.  Yet  there  were  enough  to  afford 
Gardener  the  moderate  sport  which  he  desired, 
and  a  frequent  oversupply  of  meat,  for  which  he 
found  a  convenient  outlet  on  the  other  side  of  the 

297 


Hunting   Without  a   Gun. 

pond,  where  a  small  party  of  men  were  building  a 
lumbering  camp  for  the  operations  of  the  coming 
winter.  These  were  his  only  neighbors — two 
miles  distant  at  that.  His  visits  to  them  were  not 
frequent,  but  welcome — especially  when  he  brought 
a  quarter  of  venison  to  break  the  monotony  of  salt 
pork  and  beans.  The  cook  of  the  party  was  some- 
thing of  a  trapper,  and  therefore  particularly  inter- 
ested in  Gardener's  success  in  fur-gathering.  On 
his  part,  Gardener  was  glad  to  do  his  neighbors  a 
good  turn,  and  break  his  isolation  by  an  occa- 
sional touch  with  humanity,  though  with  the  rough 
side  of  it,  and  having  the  greater  need  in  this 
respect  and  the  more  leisure,  he  did  most  of  the 
visiting. 

Gardener's  shanty  was  situated  midway  in  his 
line  of  traps,  which  for  the  most  part  were  set  for 
the  pine  marten — misnamed  the  sable  by  our 
hunters  and  trappers,  who  go  still  further  astray 
in  mispronouncing  the  name  "saple."  At  intervals 
stronger  traps  were  set  for  that  notorious  trap  rob- 
ber, the  pennant's  marten  or  fisher,  and  at  likely 
places  on  small  streams,  traps  baited  with  fish  were 
set  for  mink,  which  by  a  caprice  of  fashion  had  at 
that  time  become  one  of  the  most  valuable  fur- 
bearers.  The  line  marked  by  blazed  trees  ex- 
tended so  far  in  each  direction  from  the  shanty 

298 


Saved  by    an   Enemy. 

that  only  half  of  it  could  be  gone  over  in  a  day,  the 
other  half  the  next  day,  an  arrangement  by  which 
Gardener  could  attend  wholly  to  his  traps  as  he 
went  out  and  give  his  attention  to  hunting  as  he 
returned  to  camp,  making  such  detours  as  occasion 
required. 

During  a  week  of  most  favorable  weather  he 
had  extraordinary  luck  with  his  traps,  when  he 
went  over  to  the  lumber  camp  with  the  half  of  a 
fat  deer.  He  received  a  hearty  welcome  from  his 
friends  and  as  hearty  congratulations  on  his  good 
fortune,  which  he  was  quite  free  to  tell  them  of, 
as  none  of  them  could  in  the  least  be  considered  as 
rivals,  unless  it  was  Murdock,  the  cook,  who  did, 
indeed,  prick  up  his  ears  and  look  out  of  temper 
when  he  heard  the  count  of  mink  and  sable.  But 
he  soon  recovered  himself,  and  made  qualified 
congratulations. 

"You've  done  consid'able  well  for  a  green  hand 
at  trapping"  he  said,  as  he  began  cutting  some 
slices  of  venison  to  fry  with  salt  pork,  after  the 
barbarous  fashion  of  backwoods  cookery.  "If  I 
waVt  so  tormented  busy  I'd  go  over  an'  show  you 
a  trick  or  two  that's  worth  knowin'.  But  these  fel- 
lers' jaws  keeps  me  a-hustlin'  so  't  I  hain't  time  to 
stir  a  rod  from  camp." 

"Just  listen  to  him,"  cried  Williams,  the  boss  of 
299 


Hunting   Without   a   Gun. 

the  party.  "You'd  think  he  had  to  hump  himself 
the  whole  time  to  cook  for  six  men.  Somehow  he's 
managed  to  ketch  half  a  dozen  saple  an'  two  mink 
since  he's  been  here." 

"You  wrait  an'  see  the  animals  feed,  an'  then  tell 
me  what  you  think  of  cookin'  for  six,"  retorted 
Murdock,  addressing  Gardener.  "An'  them  saple 
an'  mink  come  right  here  to  be  ketched." 

"Off  tendin'  his  traps  two  three  hours  every 
day,"  Williams  remarked;  "but  I  don't  care  so 
long  's  he  gets  the  grub  ready  on  time." 

Murdock  dropped  the  conversation  to  attend  to 
his  regular  duties,  and  soon  served  up  the  dinner, 
to  which  Gardener  was  of  course  invited,  and 
given  an  opportunity  to  see  how  the  company  bore 
themselves  as  trenchermen.  He  was  forced  to  ad- 
mit that  they  did  valiant  service  that  made  Mur- 
dock's  office  no  sinecure,  but  when  half  an  hour 
after  dinner  he  left  them  to  return  to  his  own 
camp,  the  cook  seemed  to  have  arrived  at  a  period 
of  leisure,  though  he  made  some  show  of  being 
busy  while  making  casual  inquiries  concerning 
Gardener's  usual  hours  of  being  at  home. 

A  few  days  later  it  so  happened  that  Gardener 
returned  from  his  traps  two  hours  earlier  than  or- 
dinary, and  upon  quietly  approaching  the  shanty 
surprised  Murdock  inside  rummaging  among  the 

300 


Saved  by   an   Enemy. 

mixed  confusion  of  its  contents.  He  showed  some 
embarrassment  at  being  detected  in  making  him- 
self so  free,  but  gave  as  an  excuse  that,  having 
come  over  to  call  on  Gardener,  and  not  finding  him 
at  home,  he  was  searching  for  tobacco  to  solace 
himself  with  a  smoke  while  waiting  for  his  host's 
return,  and  Gardener  thought  little  of  it  at  the 
time.  He  supplied  his  visitor  with  tobacco,  and 
the  two  fell  to  talking  over  their  pipes  of  trapping 
and  of  fur  and  the  examining  of  Gardener's  stock, 
which  already  made  a  pack  so  large  that  he  de- 
clared he  must  soon  go  out  to  the  settlements  or  be 
obliged  to  make  two  trips.  Murdock  offered  to 
take  it  out  for  him,  saying  that  he  would  be  going 
in  a  few  days  to  get  supplies  for  the  lumber  camp. 
This  offer  was  declined,  but  a  bargain  was  made 
for  the  deer  skins  that  should  be  delivered  at  the 
camp  within  a  week.  Then  the  fur  was  packed  in 
a  neat  bundle  and  deposited  in  a  corner  of  the 
shanty,  supper  was  cooked  and  eaten,  and  after  a 
parting  pipe  the  visitor  departed,  his  host  accom- 
panying him  to  the  shore  and  watching  him  on  his 
way  till  his  boat  disappeared  in  the  twilight. 

Gardener  cut  the  supply  of  night  wood  that  he 
never  neglected  preparing,  for  he  liked  the  com- 
pany of  a  cheerful  fire  and  its  guardianship  while 
he  slept.  Then  he  stretched  a  couple  of  "saple" 

301 


Hunting   Without   a   Gun. 

skins,  the  result  of  the  last  tour  of  the  traps,  and, 
after  a  final  comfortable  smoke,  turned  into  the 
blankets  with  his  good  rifle  close  beside  him. 

He  had  not  slept  very  long,  as  he  judged  by  the 
condition  of  the  fire,  when  he  awoke  with  an  inde- 
finable sense  of  uneasiness.  As  he  lay  quite  motion- 
less, compelling  his  drowsy  senses  to  gather  acute- 
ness,  he  became  aware  of  footsteps  moving 
stealthily  a  short  distance  from  the  shanty,  parallel 
with  its  sides,  and  moving  toward  the  front.  The 
slow  footfalls,  making  frequent  stops,  were  evi- 
dently those  of  some  large  quadruped,  which  he  at 
once  conjectured  to  be  a  panther,  of  whose  presence 
in  the  neighborhood  he  had  seen  recent  signs,  and 
which  was  now  no  doubt  attracted  to  the  camp  by 
the  half  of  a  deer  hanging  on  a  sapling  near  by. 

Gardener  sat  up  in  bed  and  got  his  rifle  in  hand 
without  making  the  slightest  noise,  and  watched 
intently  for  the  animal,  which,  if  continuing  its 
course,  must  presently  come  in  sight  from  behind 
the  wall  of  his  shanty.  He  had  not  much  of  a 
mind  to  risk  a  shot  at  a  panther  in  the  uncertain 
light,  but  he  had  as  little  to  lose  the  meat,  on  which 
the  main  part  of  the  morrow's  rations  depended. 
The  night  was  cloudy,  but  not  dark,  for  a  full 
moon  dispersed  enough  light  through  the  veil  of 
clouds  to  render  near  objects  dimly  discernible,  and 

302 


Saved  by    an   Enemy. 

at  times  the  flicker  of  the  fire  threw  some  into  re- 
lief against  the  dark  background  of  the  woods. 
The  burning  logs  had  so  disposed  themselves  that 
Gardener  sat  in  deep  shadow,  while  the  muzzle 
and  bead  sight  of  his  rifle  were  in  the  light,  a  cir- 
cumstance which  gave  him  a  desirable  advantage. 

The  night  was  intensely  still.  No  sound  was 
heard  louder  than  the  snapping  and  flaring  of  the 
fire,  the  sudden  sinking  of  a  brand,  the  occasional 
flitter  of  a  falling  leaf,  the  far-off  faint  echo  of  a 
wolf's  howl,  and  among  these  the  more  regular 
punctuations  of  the  cautious  footfalls  of  the  yet 
unseen  intruder.  At  last  there  came  within  range 
of  Gardener's  vision  a  bulky,  dark  object  moving 
clumsily  and  slowly,  and  making  frequent  halts  for 
reconnoissance  in  the  direction  of  the  camp,  and 
always  keeping  out  of  the  firelight.  "Nothing  but 
a  bear,  after  all,"  Gardener  thought,  and  was 
further  convinced  when  the  creature  arose  on  its 
haunches  and  gazed  intently  toward  him. 

He  felt  no  hesitation  about  shooting  now,  and 
carefully  drawing  up  one  knee  for  a  rest  took  a 
quick  yet  deliberate  aim  at  the  center  of  the  breast. 
His  finger  pressed  the  trigger,  it  was  almost  yield- 
ing to  the  touch,  when  there  was  a  sudden  upward 
spring  and  swish  of  a  great  hemlock  bough,  twenty 
feet  from  the  ground,  a  lithe,  tawny  form  was 

303 


Hunting  Without  a  Gun. 

launched  from  it  in  a  swift  descending  curve  upon 
the  clumsy  figure  beneath,  and  in  the  same  instant 
the  silence  of  the  night  was  rent  by  a  yell  of  terror 
so  human  and  yet  so  unearthly  that  Gardener  lost 
his  nerve,  and  the  aimless  rifle  blazed  its  ineffectual 
charge  into  the  tree-tops. 

The  unexpected  and  human  outcry  of  its  in- 
tended victim  had  a  no  less  demoralizing  effect 
upon  the  panther,  for  it  sprang  away  with  a  pro- 
digious leap,  vanishing  as  suddenly  as  it  had  ap- 
peared, yet  for  a  moment  its  rapidly  retreating 
bounds  could  be  heard  as  it  struck  on  all  feet  at 
once,  in  an  exaggeration  of  the  performance  of  a 
frightened  domestic  cat. 

The  flying  figure  of  a  man,  sometimes  stumbling 
and  falling,  but  never  stopping,  vanished  almost  as 
quickly  in  the  opposite  direction. 

Hastening  down  to  the  shore,  Gardener  heard 
the  rapid  strokes  of  retreating  oars. 

Two  days  later  he  took  his  deer  skins  over  to  the 
lumber  camp,  but  Murdock  was  not  there. 

"He  went  a-pokin'  off  one  arternoon,"  said  Wil- 
liams, "an'  didn't  turn  up  till  next  mornin',  lookin' 
's  if  he'd  been  run  through  a  thrashin'  machine. 
He  wouldn't  tell  what  ailed  him,  an'  cleared  out, 
hook  an'  line,  bob  an'  sinker,  'fore  noon.  It's 
almighty  cur'ous." 

3°4 


EARLY  SPRING. 


HIS  is  no  zephyr  that  comes  tear- 
ing up  from  the  south,  thresh- 
ing the  naked  boughs  as  if  it 
would  destroy  the  last  bud  be- 
fore its  chance  of  bursting,  and 
out-roaring  the  brooks'  boister- 
ous rejoicing  over  their  new  freedom,  yet  there  is 
a  sweet  promise  in  its  gusty  breath — a  promise  that 
we  cherish  and  believe  in,  for  it  has  been  often 
given  and  always  soon  or  late  redeemed.  These 
are  not  musical  notes  that  the  crows  utter  as  they 
are  tumbled  and  tossed  along  before  the  gale  in 
disorderly  flight,  but  they  are  notes  of  rejoicing, 
and  also  a  promise  of  sweeter  voices  that  shall 
presently  be  heard. 

There  is  a  hopeless  look  in  the  fields  hemmed 
with  soiled  drifts  and  untidy  with  the  flotsam  and 
jetsam  of  winter  storms.  No  less  untidy  is  the 
forest,  its  once  unsullied  floor  bestrewn  with  tatters 
of  bark  and  last  year's  leaves,  yet  we  see,  beyond 
all  dreariness  of  present  desolation,  what  has  been 
again  and  again  revealed  to  us. 

305 


Hunting  Without  a   Gun. 

The  raccoon  and  the  woodchuck  have  writ  down 
their  faith  in  the  coming  resurrection  of  life  with 
their  tracks  on  the  solid  page,  and  we  hear  it  de- 
clared by  the  trumpets  of  the  geese  and  the  shrill 
pipes  of  usmall  fowl  making  noise"  of  rejoicing. 
In  the  shallow  pools  of  the  meadows  the  blue  of 
heaven  is  reflected,  the  whiteness  of  its  clouds,  and 
at  night  its  stars,  where  by  and  by  shall  be  the 
bloom  of  violets  and  daisies  and  dandelions,  and 
bees  shall  hum  to  and  fro  between  them  in  sweet 
traffic,  and  fill  the  empty  mouse  nests  with  brown 
comb. 

Through  the  roar  of  the  wind  and  the  dash  of 
branches  we  catch  the  jubilant  song  of  bobolink 
and  lark  and  oriole,  the  call  of  the  cuckoo,  the  bells 
and  flutes  of  the  woodland  thrushes.  Finer  than 
the  angry  turmoil  of  the  brook's  yellow  overflow- 
ing flood  we  hear  its  babble  of  green  fields,  where 
happy  anglers  wade  ankle-deep  in  lush  grass,  and 
the  banished  kingfisher  has  come  to  his  own  again. 

Through  the  dun  of  fields  and  the  gray  of 
woodlands  as  through  thin  veils  we  see  green  grass 
springing  and  the  bourgeoning  of  branches; 
ledges,  blushing  with  the  bloom  of  honeysuckles; 
the  brown  floor  of  the  woods  dappled  with  moose- 
flower  and  squirrel-cup.  The  birds  are  busy  witf\ 
nest  building,  from  his  freshly  swept  threshold  the 

306 


Early  Spring. 

woodchuck  regards  the  growing  clover,  and  the 
chipmunk  sits  at  his  door  in  the  sun,  clucking  his 
contentment. 

So  often  have  we  seen  this  miracle  of  spring 
wrought,  that  with  the  eye  of  faith,  more  than  of 
fancy,  we  see  it  repeated,  and  in  spite  of  all  delays 
and  relapses  of  the  fickle  weather,  we  hopefully 
await  its  fulfilment. 


307 


SUMMER. 


|  HEN  we  were  in  the  midst  of  the 
desolation  of  winter  with  the 
muffled  whiteness  spread  far 
around  us,  the  nakedness  of 
trees  on  every  side,  far  and 
near  only  gray  and  white,  and 
above  us  the  cold  steel-blue  of  the  sky,  no  songs 
of  birds,  no  lap  of  waves  on  shores,  no  tinkle  of 
running  brooks,  no  cheerfuller  sound  anywhere 
than  the  mournful  baying  of  hounds  awakening 
the  echoes  among  the  silent  hills,  summer  with  all 
its  gladness  and  brightness  seemed  as  far  away 
and  unattainable  as  the  red  and  golden  glory  that 
mocked  us  in  the  sunset  cloud. 

Yet,  like  the  swift,  unaccountable  shiftings  of 
a  dream,  we  have  seen  the  transformation  from 
white  and  gray  through  almost  imperceptible 
changes  to  drearier  dun,  to  the  green  flush  of 
sunny  slopes,  to  purpling  of  woods  with  swelling 
buds,  then  sprinkling  of  tender  green,  then  to  full 
leafage  with  tints  as  varied  as  autumn's  hues,  and 
the  broad  fields,  green  with  lush  herbage,  dap- 

308 


Summer. 

pled  with  bloom.  And  again  we  have  heard  the 
rush  of  free  brooks  and  the  wash  of  waves  on  peb- 
bly shores,  and  the  songs  of  all  the  birds,  and  the 
droning  of  the  vagrant  bumble  bee. 

The  summer  that  but  a  little  while  ago  seemed 
so  far  off  is  here.  Sunbonnets  and  straw  hats  bob- 
bing above  the  herdsgrass  and  daisies,  with  bobo- 
links in  arrested  flight  scolding  musically  over 
them,  give  token  of  ripe  strawberries.  Busy 
robins  flock  to  the  cherry  trees  to  claim  the  first 
fruit.  The  incessant  chirr  of  the  mowing  machine 
comes  from  a  distant  meadow,  like  the  voice  of 
some  gigantic  locust,  and,  mingled  with  it,  the  old 
midsummer  music  of  the  whetted  scythe.  The  first 
raspberries  are  ripening  in  the  fence  corners,  the 
apple  branches  stooping  to  the  weight  of  growing 
fruit,  and  the  squirrels  are  making  midden  heaps 
under  the  pear  trees. 

There  are  days  and  weeks  of  drought,  when 
corn  leaves  droop  and  curl,  and  even  the  sturdy 
weeds  wilt;  the  cropped  pastures  grow  sear  and 
dusty  under  the  hoofs  of  the  hungry  flocks  and 
herds;  the  babbling  rivulets  are  silent  dry  gullies, 
and  the  noisy  rivers  are  shrunk  to  attenuated 
threads  that  crawl  among  the  boulders  of  their 
beds  with  scarcely  strength  enough  to  stir  their 
shallow  pools.  Distant  thunderstorms  growl  un- 


Hunting   Without   a   Gun. 

fulfilled  promises  of  rain.  For  a  little  while  the 
red,  rayless  sun  is  veiled  with  clouds;  the  shifting 
breeze  brings  the  wholesome  fragrance  of  moist 
earth,  and  the  parched  ground  is  tantalized  with 
a  patter  of  great  raindrops,  and  then  the  red  sun 
blazes  forth  again,  fierce  and  relentless. 

But  one  night  we  awake  to  hear  the  steady  pat- 
ter of  rain  upon  roof  and  leaves,  the  drip  of  eaves, 
until  the  thirsty  earth  drinks  its  fill,  and  the  re- 
plenished brooks  overflow  and  comb  the  meadow 
grass  dowyn  flat  and  straight  upon  their  banks. 

The  sportsman  has  his  bout  at  the  woodcock  in 
the  swamp — doubtful  sport  when  one  considers 
being  smothered  in  the  murky  heat  and  the  torrent 
of  mosquitoes.  Yet  it  is  good  to  feel  the  familiar 
weight  of  the  gun  again,  and  to  find  that  eye  and 
hand  have  not  forgotten  their  cunning. 

Along  the  shaded  stream  or  rock-bound  shore  of 
lake  the  angler  invites  the  capricious  bass  with 
various  lures,  or  trolls  for  pike  and  pickerel  in 
winding,  rush-paled  channels  where  white  squad- 
rons of  anchored  waterlilies  are  tossed  on  his 
boat's  wake.  The  plash  of  his  oars  frightens  a 
wood  duck  and  her  half-grown  brood  to  flight,  tear- 
ing out  of  the  sedges  with  a  prodigious  flutter  and 
a  clamor  of  tremulous  squeaks  that  makes  one's 
heart  beat  as  quick  as  their  vibrant  wings,  in  antici- 

310 


Summer. 

pation  of  glorious  autumnal  sport.  A  startled  bit- 
tern, with  an  unmistakable  expression  of  disgust 
at  the  intrusion,  springs  awkwardly  from  the 
weeds,  and  a  great  heron  breaks  from  statuesque 
repose  and  sags  away  on  laboring  pinions,  until  he 
is  a  wavering  speck  against  the  sky. 

Wandering  in  neighboring  woods  where  dwarf 
cornel  dapples  the  hemlock  shade  with  its  white 
blossoms  and  scarlet  berries,  the  summer  idler  may 
get  a  shock  of  the  nerves  by  the  sudden  outburst  of 
a  pack  of  grouse  from  a  quiet  bramble  thicket,  the 
half-grown  birds  almost  as  strong  of  wing  as  the 
old,  and  already  shaking  thunder  from  their  swift 
pinions,  sounding  another  promise  of  autumn's 
glorious  days. 

As  swiftly  as  the  spring  went,  the  summer 
passes;  the  bobolink  has  donned  his  sober  coat  and 
gone ;  the  plover  chuckles  his  farewell  to  northern 
uplands;  the  swallows  congregate  in  grand  council, 
considering  migration ;  the  last  flame  of  summer  is 
kindled  in  the  cardinal-flower's  bloom;  presently 
we  shall  see  the  first  glow  of  autumn's  many- 
colored  fires. 


311 


FALL. 

UMMER  is  gone,  like  a  tale  that 
is  told.  The  thistledown  drifts 
down  the  north  wind,  the 
bloom  of  the  goldenrod  is 
faded  on  its  browning  bulbed 
stalks,  the  constellations  of 
blue  and  white  asters  are  thinning  and  fading  in 
the  cool,  damp  shade  of  the  woodside.  Under 
skies  of  cold  steel-blue  or  somber  gray,  and  over 
naked  woods  and  fading  yellow  stubble  and  fields 
where  green  is  growing  brown  with  successive 
frosts,  the  straggling  legions  of  crows  move 
steadily  southward,  outstripped  by  swifter  squad- 
rons of  wild  geese  making  their  aerial  march  to 
the  wild  clangor  of  clarions. 

All  sounds  proclaim  the  season.  The  woodland 
echoes  speak  with  changed  voices,  for  they  come 
with  fuller,  less  broken  tone  from  the  naked  woods 
and  rocky  hillsides  than  when  each  leaf  seemed  to 
give  back  its  quivering  ripple  of  sound.  The 
brooks  babble  in  muffled  tones  under  the  drift  of 
fallen  leaves  that  covers  them,  and  now  clogs  some 

312 


Fall. 


tiny   waterfall,    and   now   sets  free   the    dammed 
current. 

The  mellow  baying  of  the  hound,  the  frequent 
report  of  the  gun,  the  solemn  boom  of  falling  trees 
are  befitting  sounds;  and  the  subdued  hum  of  the 
vagrant  bumblebee,  quite  bereft  of  its  roistering 
summer  swagger,  the  faint,  slow  creak  of  the 


THE    SERE   AND    SILENT    MARSHES. 

cricket,  and  the  bluebird's  sad  song  of  farewell  are 
sounds  that  belong  only  to  fall. 

The  sere  and  silent  marshes  are  of  uniform  dun 
hue,  save  where  a  veil  is  woven  over  them  by  in- 
numerable spiders,  and  shines  all  day  in  the  sun 
like  unmelted  hoar  frost.  The  muskrats  are  lay- 
ing their  last  thatch  of  sedge  in  the  roof  of  their 
huts,  unseen  by  day  and  unheard  but  as  they  stir 
the  dead  stalks  of  tangled  weeds  along  the  borders 
of  their  watery  paths.  A  grebe  wrinkles  the 

313 


Hunting   Without  a   Gun. 

glassy  channel  with  its  wake  and  sinks  noiselessly 
beneath  it  as  the  prow  of  a  late  angler's  skiff 
comes  nosing  its  course  around  the  nearest  bend. 

After  a  few  days  wherein  the  stripped  earth 
dreams  of  its  bloom  and  leafage  and  song  which 
seem  so  possible  to  this  genial  air  and  summer  sky, 
the  way  of  the  swimming  waterfowl  and  the  boat 
will  be  a  crystal-paved  way  for  the  feet  of  the 
skater. 

The  grebe  sounds  the  depths  of  far-away 
southern  streams  where  water  plants  grow  all  the 
year  round,  and  the  angler  sits  by  his  fireside  with 
pipe  and  glass,  telling  tales  of  his  summer's  fishing. 
The  wind  moans  among  the  naked  trees  and  brings 
from  afar  the  sad  song  of  the  sea  to  the  pines;  it 
whistles  dismal  tunes  to  the  bleached  grass  that 
such  a  little  while  ago  listened  to  the  blithe  songs 
of  the  lark,  bobolink,  and  sparrow,  whose  nests  its 
greenness  sheltered,  and  drifts  the  dead  leaves 
into  the  hollows  of  the  frozen  earth. 

Then  from  the  gray  roof  of  the  sky  that  rests 
its  arch  upon  the  mountains,  the  snow  descends 
and  covers  the  earth's  unseemly  nakedness,  and 
the  freshness  of  the  spring,  the  bloom  and  fruitage 
of  summer,  and  the  glory  of  autumn  are  but 
dreams  of  the  past  and  future. 


314 


WINTER. 


|HEN  the  fire  of  youth  has  burned 
out  and  the  ashes  of  age  lie  in 
a  gray  drift  on  the  smoulder- 
ing embers,  one  shivers  in- 
stinctively at  the  name  of  win- 
ter. In  imagination  we  already 
see  the  dreary  desolation  of  the  earth,  stripped  of 
its  mantle  of  greenness  and  bloom  and  ripe  fruit- 
age, ready  to  don  the  white  robe  for  dreamless 
sleep. 

Gradually  the  change  comes,  the  glory  of 
autumn  passes  away,  the  brown  leaves  drift  and 
waver  to  the  earth,  the  summer  birds  fly  south- 
ward to  lands  of  perennial  leaf  and  blossom,  and 
leave  to  us  but  the  memory  of  song  in  a  desolate 
silent  land,  when  the  brooks  must  sing  only  to 
themselves  under  crystal  roofs,  and  you  only  know 
they  are  singing  by  the  beads  of  elastic  pearl  that 
round  and  lengthen  and  break  into  many  beads  as 
they  slip  along  the  braided  current. 

There  are  only  the  moaning  of  the  wind  among 
the  hills  and  the  rustle  of  withered  leaves  along 

315 


Hunting   Without  a   Gun. 

the  dun  earth.  A  week  ago  it  was  full  of  life — 
now  there  is  only  desolation  and  death,  yet  so  im- 
perceptibly have  these  come  that  we  know  not 
when  the  other  ceased,  and  we  are  not  appalled. 
Then  comes  the  miracle  of  snow,  the  gray  sky 
blossoms  into  a  white  shower  of  celestial  petals 
that  bloom  again  on  withered  stem  and  bough  and 
shrub  until  the  gray  and  tawny  world  is  trans- 
formed to  universal  purity.  Where  there  was  no 
life  are  now  abundant  signs  of  it,  the  silent  record 
of  many  things.  Mouse,  weasel  and  squirrel,  hare, 
skunk  and  fox  have  written  the  plain  story  of  their 
nightly  wanderings;  red-poll,  bunting,  crow,  and 
grouse  have  embroidered  the  history  of  their 
alighting  and  their  terrestrial  journeying  on  the 
same  white  page.  The  jay  of  many  voices 
proclaims  his  presence,  the  chickadee  lisps  his 
brief  song,  the  nuthatch  blows  his  reedy  clarionet, 
a  white  flock  of  snow  buntings  drift  by  with  a 
creaking  twitter  like  the  sound  of  floating  ice,  a 
crow  sounds  his  raucous  trumpet,  the  ruffed  grouse 
thunders  his  swift  departure  in  a  shower  of  dis- 
lodged snow,  the  woodpecker  drums  a  merry  tat- 
too, a  fox  barks  huskily  among  the  rugged  defiles 
of  the  hills,  and  far  away  is  sounded  the  answer- 
ing challenge  of  a  hound,  and  under  the  stars  the 
screech  owl's  quavering  call  is  heard  and  the 

316 


Winter. 

storm-boding,  sonorous  warning  of  his  solemn  big 
brother  of  the  double  crest,  punctuated  by  the 
resonant  crack  of  frost-strained  trees. 

What  beauty  that  lies  hidden  under  summer 
leaves  is  revealed  now  in  the  graceful  tracery  of 
pearl  enameled  branch  and  twig,  on  gray  trunks 
embossed  with  moss  and  lichen,  on  bent  stems  of 
tawny  grass  and  frond  of  withered  fern.  How 
the  uncouth  ruggedness  of  common  things  is 
clothed  and  beautified  by  the  charitable  mantle  of 
the  snow,  what  curves  and  shadows  in  the  immacu- 
late folds. 

By  day  and  by  night,  in  sunlight  and  in  moon- 
light, a  dome  of  purest  azure,  now  pale,  now  dark, 
canopies  a  world  of  purest  white  and  purest 
shadow,  or  earth  and  sky  are  blurred  in  the  wild 
grandeur  of  a  winter  storm.  Surely  the  beauty 
of  the  world  lives  even  amid  the  death  of  winter — 
it  is  not  death,  but  beautiful  sleep,  broken  at  times 
by  spasms  of  terrified  dreams,  followed  by  pro- 
founder  sleep. 


317 


WINTER'S  TALES. 

(HERE  are  goings  on  about  us 
under  cover  of  night  which  are 
unknown  to  us  and  unsuspected 
when  the  ground  is  bare,  but 
fully  revealed  when  the  earth  is 
asleep  under  its  white  blanket, 
upon  which  the  record  is  written  so  plainly  that 
he  who  runs  thereon  may  read. 

Who  ever  thought  that  wild,  shy  Reynard  came 
so  near  us  of  his  own  free  will,  till  the  prints  in  the 
snow  informed  us  of  his  nightly  visits?  Now  we 
see  that  he  has  been  within  gunshot  of  the  house 
while  we  were  asleep,  and  we  can  trace  every  step 
of  his  devious  course,  and  almost  read  his  thoughts 
in  his  tracks.  Here  he  came  to  the  footpath 
which  leads  to  the  barn,  and  made  a  full  stop  to 
take  a  suspicious  sniff  at  it  before  he  ventured  to 
cross  the  tainted  trail  of  his  arch  enemy.  There 
he  tried  the  flavor  of  a  fallen  frozen  apple,  and 
found  it  not  to  his  taste,  for  one  small  bite  satisfied 
him.  Then  he  heard  the  squeak  of  a  field  mouse, 
and  turned  aside  to  unearth  or  unsnow  a  morsel 

318 


Winter's    Tales. 

more  to  his  liking.  A  waft  of  the  hen-roost  came 
to  his  nostrils  here,  and  he  reconnoitered  that  para- 
dise at  a  safe  distance.  We  can  almost  see  his 
sharp,  wistful  nose  turned  toward  it,  itching  with 
the  tempting  fragrance.  But  discretion  got  the 
better  of  his  valor  and  his  stomach,  and  he  veered 
off.  Perhaps  the  baying  of  the  house  dog  quick- 
ened his  pace,  for  he  made  some  flying  leaps  before 
he  again  fell  to  printing  leisurely  footsteps,  tending 
toward  the  hills.  Doubtless  he  made  the  same 
rounds  in  spring,  summer,  and  fall  nights,  but  in 
the  morning  there  was  no  sign  of  his  recent 
presence  perceptible  to  any  but  the  hound. 

We  seldom  see  the  weasel,  for  he  has  bargained 
with  t'he  seasons  to  hide  him,  yet  these  footprints, 
in  regular  pairs  alongside  the  wall,  only  distin- 
guishable by  their  smaller  size  from  those  of  his 
larger  cousin,  the  mink,  show  that  he  is  one  of  our 
near  neighbors.  He  ought  hardly  to  be  an  unwel- 
come one,  though  he  sometimes  makes  sad  havoc 
among  the  poultry,  for  he  wages  constant  warfare 
upon  the  hordes  of  meadow  mice,  and  is  an  unre- 
lenting foe  of  the  rat,  more  terrible  than  the  cat. 
He  is  braver  than  puss,  and  so  slender  that  no  rat 
hole  is  inaccessible  to  him — the  lithest  of  our  four- 
footed  things. 

In  February  and  March  we  may  read  the  record 
319 


Hunting  ff^^ut  a   Gun. 


of  the  mink's  journeys  along  the  streams,  and 
learn  what  a  traveler  he  becomes  when  his  heart 
is  set  a-burning.  No  matter  what  the  weather  is, 
frost  cannot  cool  its  ardor  nor  rain  quench  its  fire 
when  he  goes  a-wooing,  miles  and  miles  away 
from  his  home  burrow. 

After  a  thawy  night  we  see  how  near  to  our 
door  the  skunk  has  walked  or  cantered,  deliberate 
in  either  pace.  Taking  hie,  back  track,  we  may  find 
that  he  has  been  all  winter  so  near  us  as  the  barn, 
keeping  house  under  the  haymow.  We  would 
have  trod  gingerly  had  we  known  that  we  were 
delving  down  toward  such  a  Chinese  bomb  when 
we  were  pitching  out  the  fodder.  He  seems  bent 
on  no  evil  now,  but  walking  out  more  to  get  a 
breath  of  fresher  air  and  to  see  something  of  the 
world  again  by  starlight.  He  takes  a  lunch  of  the 
offal  left  from  the  butchering,  or  the  carcass  of  a 
winter-killed  sheep,  but  he  does  not  visit  the  hen- 
roost. 

We  knew  that  Grimalkin  was  a  night-walker, 
but  now  we  have  knowledge  of  where  he  has  been, 
and  something  of  his  doings  while  he  was  abroad, 
though  it  is  hard  to  tell  what  took  him  to  the 
woods  at  this  season,  when  birds  are  scarce  and 
their  nests  empty.  He  is  nothing  but  a  diminutive, 
half-tamed  panther  at  best,  and  it  is  likely  that 

320 


Winter's'  Tales. 

the  wild  part  of  him  took  the  tamer  half  away  for 
rebaptism  in  the  forest  shadows.  On  his  way 
through  the  orchard  he  turned  aside  to  make  a 
spring  at  a  low-hung  vireo's  nest,  and  its  torn  bot- 
tom shows  that  his  leap  was  true.  We  think  he 
was  fooled  jumping  at  a  bird's  nest  in  winter,  till 
our  friend,  the  bee-hunter,  a  cunning  reader  of  the 
book  of  Nature,  after  looking  a  little,  says:  "Per- 
haps pussy  wasn't  so  foolish,  after  all.  You  see 
by  the  scattered  litter  of  the  nest  that  the  wind  was 
blowing  right  to  him  where  he  turned  out  of  his 
course  to  come  here,  and  it  carried  to  him  the 
scent  of  something,  probably  a  deer  mouse,  curled 
up  for  a  nap  in  the  old  nest."  He  has  been  to  the 
barn  in  the  meadow  to  look  after  his  stock  of  mice 
there;  and  if  we  come  upon  him  in  this  game  pre- 
serve of  his,  his  old  wrildness  will  show  itself  in  his 
skulking,  stealthy  motions,  and  will  glare  at  us  out 
of  his  green  eyes  as  he  crouches  in  a  dim  corner, 
half  at  bay,  half  ready  to  turn  tail,  enough  to  send 
a  shiver  down  one's  back.  Can  this  savage  be  the 
same  mild-looking  fellow  that  was  purring  so 
gently  under  the  kitchen  stove  last  evening? 

These  tracks,  near  the  granary,  beginning  and 
ending  so  abruptly,  are  not  those  of  some  small 
plantigrade,  as  one  might  think,  but  the  footprints 
of  the  handsomest  as  well  as  the  most  unpopular 

321 


Hunting  Without  a  Gun. 

of  our  winter  birds,  the  bluejay.  He  will  steal 
when  he  can,  and  his  voice  is  discordant,  but  his 
beauty  and  his  presence  here  in  winter  should 
atone  for  many  tricks  and  shortcomings.  Now, 
he  has  only  been  picking  up  the  scattered  kernels 
that  have  fallen  through  the  floor,  and  perhaps 
varying  his  scant  fare  with  a  few  shreds  of  fat  torn 
from  the  pig's  plucks  hanging  against  the  crib. 

Farther  afield,  where  the  tall  weeds  overtop  the 
snow,  it  is  printed  thick  with  the  tracks  of  snow 
buntings,  true  birds  of  winter,  wearing  its  livery 
of  sere  leaf  and  snow,  with  voices  like  the  creak- 
ing and  tinkling  of  ice.  They  bring  the  far  North 
down  to  us,  and  make  us  neighbors  to  the  Esqui- 
maux and  Laps,  whose  nets  and  springes  they  have 
escaped.  How  lately  have  they  seen  those  wild 
people,  and  how  were  they  getting  on  when  last 
these  birds  of  the  snow  flurried  past  their  igloos 
and  reindeer-skin  tents? 

If  in  the  fall  we  saw  no  signs  of  meadow  mice, 
and  hoped  that  adverse  seasons  had  cut  off  their 
tribe,  the  snow  now  shows  so  many  of  their  shafts, 
bored  from  below,  round  as  auger  holes,  and  so 
many  little  tracks  radiating  from  them  that  we 
know  how  busily  they  are  tunneling  next  the 
earth,  and  that  young  apple  trees"  are.  not  likely 
to  go  unscathed  by  them,  nor  fox,  owl,  hawk  or 

322 


Winter's    Tales. 

weasel  to  go  hungry  for  lack  of  them.  Yet,  when 
the  snow  is  very  deep,  they  rarely  come  to  the  sur- 
face, but  carry  on  their  work  unsuspected,  till 
spring  or  a  great  thaw  brings  it  to  light. 

Once  in  many  winters,  not  in  the  depths  of  the 
ice  season,  but  near  the  beginning  or  end,  we  see  a 
puzzling  track  leading  up  some  little  brook,  dis- 
appearing here  and  there,  as  he  who  made  it  found 
a  way  under  the  shell  ice,  always  walking,  or 
rather  waddling,  with  broad  webbed  footprints, 
wide  apart,  and  between  them  the  narrow  trail  of 
something  dragged  behind.  What  was  it,  beast  or 
bird?  Any  trapper  will  tell  us  that  it  was  only  a 
muskrat  who,  impelled  by  lack  of  food  and  water, 
persecution  of  enemies,  hatred  of  his  kind,  or  desire 
to  see  something  of  upland  life,  had  forsaken  the 
huts  of  the  marshes  and  the  adjacent  burrows, 
and  come  exploring  this  world  unknown  to  his 
people.  Doubtless  he  saw  much  that  was  new  to 
him,  and  suffered  the  hardships  of  cold,  hunger, 
and  thirst,  like  many  another  explorer.  The  rud- 
der that  steered  him  so  well  in  his  accustomed 
waters  was  only  a  drag  in  this  dry  wintry  waste, 
and  doubtless  before  we  saw  his  track  some  fox  or 
great  owl  had  made  an  end  of  it  and  him. 

If  we  find  no  more  tracks  to  read  in  the  woods 
than  in  the  fields,  there  are  some  we  do  not  see  in 

323 


Hunting  Without  a   Gun. 

the  meadows  and  pastures.  Here  the  ruffed  grouse 
has  rayed  the  snow  with  his  well-defined  and  un- 
mistakable footprints,  and  left  the  mark  of  his 
pinions  when  he  took  flight  to  a  tree.  We  know 
the  very  branch  whereon  he  alighted  by  the  clods 
of  snow  beneath  it,  let  fall  when  it  exchanged  bur- 
dens. Little  he  cares  for  being  snowed  under. 
Here  is  the  mold  of  his  plump  body,  where,  by  the 
signs  left,  he  must  have  lain  for  days,  warming 
himself  under  the  snow  quilt  that  the  last  snowfall 
spread  over  him.  When  he  had  become  warm 
enough  and  hungry  enough,  he  rent  it  asunder  and 
went  hurtling  to  the  nearest  birch  to  fill  his  crop 
with  buds.  He  never  leaves  his  couch  on  foot,  but 
bursts  from  it  as  if  he  had  suddenly  felt  an  inward 
gnawing — or  the  danger  of  an  outward  one  if 
Reynard's  nose  should  sniff  the  secret  of  his 
hiding. 

Here  is  the  broad  trail  of  our  northern  hare, 
sunk  but  little  below  the  surface  of  the  lightest 
snow,  for  he  has  his  snowshoes  always  with  him. 
What  has  he  been  so  busy  about  in  the  long  winter 
nights  to  make  so  many  tracks?  One  hare  will 
make  you  think  that  a  hundred  had  been  here,  if 
you  will  believe  what  he  has  set  down;  yet  he  is 
not  a  voter  nor  has  the  census  taker  anything  to  do 
with  him.  Winter  as  well  as  autumn  befriends 

324 


Winter's    Tales. 

him,  and  powders  his  brown  coat  till  he  looks  like 
a  fluffy  snowball  as  he  sits  in  his  form  under  a 
snow-laden  evergreen.  Such  faith  has  he  in  his 
disguise  that  he  will  let  you  almost  lay  your  hand 
on  him  before  he  takes  to  his  heels.  But  try  to 
touch  him,  and  a  little  avalanche  goes  shooting 
over  the  snow,  its  course  more  to  be  seen  than 
itself,  by  the  sway  and  jar  and  sudden  unlading  of 
low  branches. 

A  fox  has  made  his  bed  on  a  rock  and  slept  with 
ears  and  nose  alert  if  not  with  an  eye  open,  ready 
to  start  at  the  first  sound  or  scent  of  danger.  He 
has  left  some  threads  of  his  longest  fur  on  his  cold 
mattress  to  tantalize  the  hound  who  has  worked 
his  slow  way  hither  on  the  old  trail.  And  here  is 
the  track  of  the  hunter  following  both  these  others, 
and  easily  enough  known  from  that  of  the  wood- 
chopper,  who  has  gone  straight  to  his  work,  only 
stopping  to  light  his  pipe,  as  we  may  see  by  the 
half-burned  match  and  the  stamp  of  his  ax  and 
dinner  pail  close  by  the  halted  boot  prints. 

The  gray  squirrel  has  been  out  digging  for 
food,  and  by  the  fragments  he  has  left — here 
chips  of  a  pine  cone,  there  the  empty  shell  of  a 
nut — we  see  that  in  every  place  where  he  went 
down  to  the  mold  he  found  some  morsel  to  help 
him  in  the  stress  of  winter.  What  fine  sense 

325 


Hunting  Without  a   Gun. 

directed  him?  If  you  think  it  only  chance,  try 
how  many  times  you  will  have  to  probe  the  un- 
marked even  whiteness  before  you  strike  either 
cone  or  nut.  His  tracks  and  those  of  his  saucy  lit- 
tle red  cousin  lead  from  one  tree  to  another,  under- 
foot, and  then  are  lost,  for  they  have  gone  home- 
ward or  a-wandering  by  the  air  line  of  the 
branches.  We  seldom  see  the  bigger  of  the  two 
in  our  winter  walks,  for  though  we  may  hear  him 
barking  not  a  furlong  away,  if  we  attempt  to  ap- 
proach him,  the  crunching  of  our  footsteps  alarms 
him,  and  he  puts  a  whole  great  tree  trunk  or  the 
wall  of  a  hollow  one  between  himself  and  us.  But 
in  any  pleasant  day,  and  in  some  rather  bitter 
ones,  the  little  red  scapegrace  jeers  at  us  and  all 
the  world  in  plain  sight,  or  unconcernedly  rasps 
his  nut,  sitting  at  ease  on  a  near  branch  under 
shelter  of  his  tail. 

There  are  but  few  tracks  of  birds  to  be  seen  in 
the  woods,  for  except  the  grouse  they  mostly  keep 
aloft,  where  their  food  is.  What  hewer  of  wood 
has  been  here,  working  wholly  aloft  and  leaving 
no  sign  but  his  chips?  He  was  a  sturdy  wielder 
of  tools,  whoever  he  was,  for  the  snow  is  covered 
for  a  yard  about  the  hole  of  a  dead  tree  with  slabs 
of  bark  as  big  as  one's  hand  and  chips  of  wood  as 
big  as  one's  thumb.  That  loud,  quickly  repeated 

326 


Winter' s    Tales. 

call,  cutting  the  air  as  sharply  as  his  beak  the 
wood,  is  his,  and  he  is  the  pileated  woodpecker, 
the  greatest  of  his  tribe  who  inhabit  or  visit  these 
parts. 

A  thaw  has  awakened  the  raccoon,  and  he  has 
turned  out  of  his  winter  quarters  to  go  waddling 
away  in  search  of  old  friends  or  of  a  sweetheart, 
perhaps,  but  certainly  not  of  food;  for  he  steers 
for  the  nearest  coon  tree  or  den.  He  had  the  fore- 
thought to  eat  enough  last  summer  and  fall  when 
corn  was  green,  and  frogs  were  leaping,  to  last  him 
all  winter;  and  there  is  fat  on  his  ribs  yet.  Often 
a  whole  family  of  raccoons  go  forth  together  on 
these  visits.  Woe  betide  the  one  or  the  many,  if 
the  trail  leads  to  a  hollow  tree,  and  the  hunter 
finds  it  and  follows  it  there.  His  ax  lays  low  the 
tree,  and  the  unhappy  brutes  bite  the  white  dust 
of  winter;  and  next  day  their  skins  are  nailed  to 
the  side  of  a  barn. 

The  deer  mouse  can  have  come  abroad  for  noth- 
ing but  pleasure,  for  he  has  a  bountiful  store  of 
food  laid  up  at  home.  But  poor  fellow !  There 
has  been  a  little  tragedy  enacted  here  in  the  silent 
woods  under  the  starlight.  There  were  no  wit- 
nesses, but  the  story  is  written  for  us,  simply  and 
plainly  enough  in  blue  and  white.  On  either  side 
of  the  sudden  termination  of  his  little  trail  are  the 

327 


Hunting  Without  a   Gun. 

light  marks  of  a  small  owl's  pinions.  Not  one 
tiny  drop  of  blood  nor  tuft  of  fine  fur  is  here,  but 
we  know  that  poor  mousy  is  dead  and  gone,  and 
never  will  his  great  eyes  see  that  home  again. 

Some  strange  and  rare  visitors  come  and  go 
across   this  tell-tale  waste,    leaving  no   token   of 


THE   DAYS   LENGTHEN   AND   GROW   WARMER. 

their  brief  passage  save  their  tracks  in  the  snow. 
Few  of  our  hunters  have  come  nearer  than  that  to 
seeing  a  fisher,  an  otter,  or  a  lynx.  A  panther, 
which  I  never  saw,  showed  me  by  the  prints  of  his 
tremendous  leaps  what  prodigious  power  he  pos- 
sessed, better,  perhaps,  than  if  I  had  seen  him. 

328 


Winter* s    Tales. 

For  a  favored  few,  his  yells  added  a  shiver  to  the 
winter  midnight  air. 

Cold  following  a  thaw  makes  a  crust  whereon 
the  wanderers  leave  no  record  of  their  journeys, 
but  over  it  come  scurrying  the  last  leaves  from 
trees  miles  away,  and  seeds  voyage  far  across 
it  to  colonize  distant  fields  with  their  kind. 

The  days  lengthen  and  grow  warmer,  and  as  the 
earth  gets  bare  the  snow  shrinks  to  the  fences  and 
hollows.  We  can  see  the  bounds  of  distant  hill- 
side farms  traced  in  lines  of  shining  silver,  and 
we  wonder  if  our  far-off  neighbors  know  how  roy- 
ally their  fields  are  fenced.  Sun  and  rain  blot  the 
page  of  winter,  and  the  south  wind  tears  it  away, 
and  presently  the  wondrous  story  of  the  world's 
renewed  life  is  spread  before  us. 


329 


THE    CROW   AND   THE    SCARECROW. 


NCE  upon  a  time  a  Crow,  ap- 
proaching a  Cornfield,  beheld 
with  terror  a  Scarecrow  of 
most  frightful  Mien  standing 
in  the  middle  of  it,  but  coming 
nearer  to  it  and  pulling  a  few 
spears  of  young  Corn  in  the  Edge  of  the  Field, 
saw  that  it  made  no  movement  to  stop  his  Pillage. 
Then  he  ventured  quite  near  it,  and  at  last  pulled 
a  Hill  of  Corn  that  was  sprouting  at  its  Feet, 
while  the  Scarecrow  made  no  movement  whatever. 
"What  are  you  here  for?"  asked  the  Crow,  to 
which  the  Scarecrow  replied,  "To  protect  this 
Field  of  Corn !" 

"Ah!  I  see,"  remarked  the  Crow,  "and  if  you 
could  but  hold  out  your  Hat  to  receive  your 
Salary,  you  would  make  an  excellent  Game 
Protector." 


330 


A  CASE  OF  ABSENT-MINDEDNESS. 

N  ideal  October  day,  with  the 
privilege  of  spending  it  as  I 
pleased,  brought  back  to  me  as 
much  of  the  delightful  feeling 
a  boy  enjoys  under  like  circum- 
stances as  is  likely  to  come  to 
one  whose  boyhood  lies  forty  years  .behind  him. 
At  least  such  revived  memories  of  the  sense  of  per- 
fect freedom  and  joy  of  mere  existence  that  belong 
to  youth  alone,  seemed  almost  present  possessions. 
The  same  dome  of  pearl-gray  was  above  me,  as 
wide  and  as  lofty  as  then,  for  the  sky  and  the  sea 
preserve  the  same  immensity  they  wore  to  youth- 
ful eyes,  as  mountains,  lakes,  and  trees  do  not. 
The  same  sun  shot  its  warm  shafts  from  the 
crenellated  battlements  of  the  hills,  far  across  the 
cool  shadows  of  the  valley,  and  set  the  ramparts 
of  the  west  ablaze  with  the  old  glory.  The 
familiar,  faintly  pungent  fragrance  of  ripe  leaves 
that  would  be  satisfying  if  one  could  ever  get 
enough  of  it,  came  to  my  nostrils  in  the  same  old 
elusive  wafts.  Through  the  ethereal  sense  of 

331 


Hunting   Without   a   Gun. 

smell  the  memory  is  most  quickly  awakened  and 
most  teased,  and  thereat  some  semblance  of  the 
fire  of  youth  sprang  up  within  me  like  a  transient- 
flame  flickering  out  of  dull  embers. 

I  felt  something  almost  like  a  boy's  confident 
hopefulness,  and  quickened  by  a  touch  of  his  alert- 
ness, my  step  grew  more  elastic  and  the  gun  be- 
came a  helpful  burden.  Yet,  while  I  was  trying  to 
believe  myself  a  boy  again,  I  became  aware  of 
points  of  difference  in  my  grown-up  feelings  from 
those  of  my  juvenile  father.  There  were 
rheumatic  twinges  in  my  joints  that  were  never 
present  in  his,  and  a  heaviness  in  my  feet  that  his 
were  never  weighted  with  when  the  gun  or  the 
fish-pole  were  on  his  shoulder,  though  it  may  be 
they  were  not  winged  when  they  bore  him  to 
school  or  to  work. 

These  present  ills  did  not  impress  me  so  much 
as  the  absence  of  the  bloodthirst  that  consumed  the 
heart  of  the  boy.  I  heard  the  sharp  insistence  of 
the  meadowlark's  metallic  note  not  far  out  of  my 
course  without  desire  to  turn  aside  and  kill  him. 
J  would  rather  rest  and  listen  for  the  sweetly 
modulated  drawl,  so  long  ago  interpreted  for  me 
by  my  mother  into  plain  words  of  defiance,  "Can't 
see  me."  Then,  when  his  brother  burst  from  the 
grass  just  in  front  of  me  with  a  gamy  whir  that 

332 


A    Case    of   Absent-Mindedness. 

brought  my  gun  instinctively  to  a  ready,  I  merely 
covered  him  with  a  sure  aim  and  told  him  how 
mercifully  he  was  being  spared,  and  was  quite  con- 
tent with  the  noiseless  and  bloodless  shot  that 
maintained  the  quickness  of  my  eye  and  the  cun- 
ning of  my  hand,  and  which  left  the  peacefulness 
of  the  fair  morning  unbroken,  and  the  beautiful 
world  unrobbed  of  an  atom  of  its  happy  life. 

I  was  filled  with  pity  and  disgust  for  the  boy 
who  used  to  kill  so  wantonly  all  manner  of  harm- 
less things,  and  was  not  a  little  saddened  by  re- 
morse for  his  savage  deeds,  while  my  cheeks 
tingled  with  shame  at  the  recollection  of  his  many 
inexcusable  misses.  Nevertheless  I  made  a  resolve 
not  quite  consistent  with  the  first  emotion,  yet  per- 
haps prompted  by  the  last,  that  if  I  was  given  the 
chance  of  a  shot  at  real  game  I  would  take  ad- 
vantage of  it  just  to  prove  what  I  could  do  if  I 
would,  and  prevent  unpleasant  remarks  at  home. 

I  was  at  the  woodside  that  was  as  gay  with 
goldenrod  and  asters  as  any  housewife's  front  yard 
with  the  gold  and  purple  and  blue  of  late  bloom- 
ing garden  posies,  and  in  their  wild  confusion 
much  more  beautiful  than  the  prim  and  carefully 
tended  marigolds,  nasturtiums,  and  china  asters. 
Shining  their  brightest  in  the  morning  sun,  and 
banked  against  the  black  shade  of  the  woods' 

333 


Hunting   Without  a   Gun. 

inner  recesses,  they  were  yet  outshone  by  the 
gorgeous  leaves  above  them  of  yellow  poplars, 
scarlet  maples,  and  a  tall  pepperidge  whose  flat 
branches  were  as  intense  in  color  as  a  cardinal 
flower. 

As  I  stood  in  a  sort  of  trance  of  admiration,  I 
wras  aroused  from  it  by  the  warning  chuck  of  a 
partridge  not  twenty  yards  before  me,  as  I  guessed 
by  the  sound.  By  the  time  the  gun  was  cocked,  he 
burst  out  of  a  tangle  of  withered  ferns  beside  a 
mouldering  log,  where  no  doubt  he  had  been  en- 
joying a  morning  bath  of  sunshine  and  wood  dust. 
Rising  in  a  great  curve  to  clear  the  thicket  of 
weeds  and  briers  that  hedged  the  woodside,  he 
offered  as  pretty  a  shot  as  could  be  wished,  though 
it  must  be  a  quick  one  to  catch  him  before  he  got 
among  the  tree-trunks.  I  felt  quite  sure  of  him  as 
the  trigger  was  pulled,  and  looked  under  the 
smoke  cloud  very  confident  of  seeing  him  tumbling 
into  view  from  behind  it.  But  I  saw  nothing  of 
the  kind,  nor  even  a  feather  wavering  down  when 
the  smoke  drifted  upward.  Listening  for  a  crash 
of  twigs  and  a  soft  thud  of  a  feather-clad  body  on 
the  mossy  floor,  I  heard  only  an  intermittent  clit- 
ter  of  intercepting  leaves  receding  into  the  heart 
of  the  woods.  Almost  beyond  a  doubt  it  was  a 
clear  miss;  and  as  I  gaped  in  chopf alien  amaze- 

334 


A    Case    of   Abscnt-Mindcdness. 

ment  into  the  woods,  I  tried  to  think  myself  glad 
that  it  was  so,  and  but  for  a  momentary  impulse 
would  not  have  had  it  otherwise.  .  Yet,  for  all 
that,  I  searched  long  and  diligently  in  the  line  of 
the  bird's  flight,  and  could  not  blind  myself  to  the 
fact  that  the  finding  of  a  cut  feather  would  have 
comforted  me.  After  slipping  a  fresh  cartridge 
into  the  empty  barrel,  I  went  on  and  on,  far  be- 
yond the  range  of  any  gun  or  the  flight  of  a 
wounded  bird,  carefully  looking  over  every  foot 
of  the  ground.  Well,  at  any  rate,  I  had  made  a 
little  noise  in  the  world,  and  let  it  know  that  I  was 
abroad  in  it;  but  I  was  glad  that  only  the  partridge 
and  I  knew  what  the  noise  was  about. 

Still  following  the  supposed  course  of  the  par- 
tridge's flight,  I  came  to  the  heart  of  the  woods 
in  which  was  preserved  a  good  deal  of  the  charac- 
ter of  the  original  forest  that  in  my  boyhood 
covered  nearly  a  thousand  acres  with  almost  un- 
broken shade,  and  to  my  youthful  imagination  was 
a  vast  and  mysterious  wilderness,  always  entered 
with  an  expectation  of  discovery  and  adventure. 

On  forty  acres  the  great  hemlocks,  maples,  and 
elms,  apparently  no  older  than  they  were  forty 
years  ago,  still  held  the  ground  with  the  mossy 
and  moldcring  trunks  of  their  fallen  elder 
brethren,  sprawls  of  hobble  bush,  red-beaded 

.      335 


Hunting   Without  a   Gun. 

thickets  of  winterberry,  and  patches  of  gray 
sphagnum. 

Enough  was  left  to  recall  the  youthful  feeling, 
but  not  to  revive  it.  I  felt  neither  awe  nor  ex- 
pectancy, only  an  undefined  sadness,  perhaps  for 
departed  youth,  perhaps  for  the  departing  forest, 
gone  and  going  to  return  no  more.  There  were 
some  hickories  with  twenty  feet  of  sharded  trunk 
upholding  their  lofty  tops,  which  I  searched  for 
squirrels  till  my  neck  ached,  and  concluded  that 
squirrels  were  not  worth  looking  for  with  eyes  that 
had  lost  their  sharpness.  Indeed,  there  was  not 
much  left  to  me  that  the  boy  used  to  bring  or  find 
here. 

Going  a  little  further,  a  broad  gleam  of  sun- 
light, shining  in  broken  patches  beyond  the  gloom, 
led  me  through  bordering  water  maples  to  the 
bank  of  a  narrow  stream.  I  approached  it  care- 
fully, for  it  w'as  a  well-remembered  haunt  of  wood 
ducks  in  the  old  days.  I  carefully  scanned  the  long 
reach  from  the  green  swirls  at  my  feet  to  the  silver 
glitter  of  the  rapids  above,  down  to  the  bend 
where  the  smoother  current  scarcely  broke  the  re- 
flections of  the  painted  maples.  There  was  the 
old  oak  dropping  its  bountiful  crop  of  acorns  on 
shore  and  stream,  the  wild  vines  festooning  the 
willow  copses  with  blue-black  clusters  of  frost 

336  - 


A    Case    of  Absent-Mindedness. 

grapes — the  spit  of  gray  sand  embaying  the  tiny 
cove  that  was  roofed  and  latticed  with  drooping 
willow  boughs — all,  as  of  old,  inviting  the  wood 
ducks  to  feast  and  rest.  But  not  one  plumed  drake 
or  bronze-backed  duck  was  their  guest,  and  the 
scene  was  lifeless  save  for  a  party  of  jays  silently 
flitting  in  azure  glints  among  the  foliage,  for  once 
in  their  lives  too  busy  with  grapes  and  acorns  to 
be  noisy. 

I  felt  very  little  like  a  boy  as  I  faced  the  con- 
trast of  the  past  with  the  present,  and  realized  that 
the  game  was  gone,  and  with  it  youth  and  the 
friends  of  youth,  the  light-hearted  boys  who 
prowled  along  this  bank  in  the  summers  and  falls 
of  long  departed  years.  I  leaned  my  gun  against 
a  tree,  lighted  my  pipe,  and  strolled  along  the 
bank,  thinking  of  old  times  and  old  friends,  and 
renewing  acquaintance  with  old  localities. 

There  was  the  very  log,  slanting  down-stream 
from  the  bank  into  the  water,  off  which  I  once 
tumbled  four  ducks  at  a  shot,  and  there  was  the 
old  bass  hole,  and  there  the  stump  of  the  tree  that 
we  got  the  coons  out  of,  the  marks  of  our  un- 
skilled ax  strokes  kindly  obliterated  by  the  hand 
of  time  from  it  and  from  the  trunk  that  was  now 
sunken  to  a  flat  line  of  moldering  bark  and 
wood. 

337 


Hunting  Without  a  Gun. 

I  wondered  if  I  could  find  the  place  where  I 
caught  three  mink  in  one  lucky  autumn.  Yes, 
there  it  was ;  the  great  hollow  tree  with  a  narrow 
doorway  to  its  interior,  floored  with  black  mold 
and  crumbling  rotten  wood.  It  was  as  inviting 
a  half-way  house  for  traveling  mink  as  ever;  but 
there  was  no  indication  of  its  recent  use  by  the 
dusky  wanderers,  and  the  only  sign  that  they  had 
ever  frequented  it  was  a  forked  bait-stick  thrust 
slantwise  in  the  mold  at  the  back  side,  so  old  that 
I  could  almost  believe  it  to  be  my  own. 

A  tall  oak  of  familiar  aspect,  overtopping  a 
maze  of  button  bush,  reminded  me  that  I  was  not 
far  from  the  old  uduck  hole,"  a  slough  or  old 
channel  of  the  stream  so  off  the  ordinary  course 
of  hunters  and  anglers  that  it  was  known  to  but 
few  when  we  were  boys.  Then  its  seclusion  made 
it  such  a  favorite  of  wood  ducks  and  dusky  ducks 
that  a  flock  of  one  or  the  other  was  to  be  found  in 
it  almost  any  day  till  it  was  frozen  over. 

From  what  I  could  now  see  of  its  environs,  they 
appeared  so  little  changed  that  it  occurred  to  me 
my  desired  opportunity  might  be  awaiting  me 
there  to-day.  Surely  it  was  worth  trying  for;  and 
so  I  began  at  once  to  make  cautious  approach  by 
the  well-remembered  route,  with  a  very  perceptible 
rekindling  of  the  youthful  fervor  of  expectation 

338 


A   Case    of  Absent-Mindedness.  ' 

warming  my  heart.  Twenty  minutes  later  I  was 
bending  low  under  the  white  birches  on  the  land- 
ward side;  now  I  was  on  hands  and  knees  among 
the  rank  brakes,  creeping  forward,  step  by  step, 
carefully  removing  every  dry  twig  from  before 
me;  and  now  prone  on  the  earth  hitching  forward 
at  snail's  pace  by  elbows  and  toes,  just  as  I  used  to 
forty  years  ago,  only  that  from  some  unaccount- 
able cause  my  progress  seemed  far  less  impeded 
than  then.  Now  I  saw  the  farther  edge  of  the 
pool  above  the  fern  tops,  and  through  the  screen 
of  sprawling  alder  stems  there  was  a  glint  of  quick 
ripples  pulsing  intermittently  against  the  low 
shore. 

Some  living  thing  was  stirring  the  waters  of  the 
windless  pool,  but  it  might  be  only  a  muskrat. 
Now  I  was  close  to  the  alders,  and  raising  myself 
cautiously,  could  overlook  a  greater  part  of  the 
slough.  Right  in  front  of  me,  reaching  out  into 
the  midst  of  it,  not  twenty  rods  away,  was  the 
mossy  log  that  in  the  old  times  was  the  favorite 
resting  place  of  wood  ducks,  and  so,  in  full  fruition 
of  my  hopes,  it  was  to-day  crowded  with  a  rank 
of  gayly  clad  drakes  and  ducks  in  soberer  attire, 
some  asleep,  and  none  alert,  while  two  or  three 
newcomers  pushed  and  bickered  for  places  at  the 
outer  end.  They  were  too  closely  packed  to  be 

339 


Hunting   Without  a   Gun. 

counted,  but  there  could  not  be  less  than  a  dozen, 
and  by  aiming  low  at  the  nearest  I  could  not  fail 
to  get  half  of  them. 

I  felt  a  qualm  of  conscience  at  the  thought  of 
such  outright  murder  of  the  happy  crew,  uncon- 
scious of  danger  lurking  so  near  in  this  last  retreat 
of  their  persecuted  tribe,  but  the  boy  and  the  sav- 
age in  me  were  in  the  ascendant  for  the  nonce,  with 
the  pride  of  bearing  home  such  trophies  of  the  old 
man's  prowess,  and  I  hastened  to  act  on  these  im- 
pulses before  my  heart  softened. 

Quick,  yet  deliberately,  now,  the  deadly  aim— 
the  fatal  shot.  My  beating  heart  stood  still,  then 
sank  down,  down  into  the  depth  of  humiliation  as 
I  groped  on  the  ground  beside  me  for  my  gun.  It 
was  resting  harmlessly  where  I  had  left  it,  two 
hundred  yards  away.  I  do  not  know  whether 
there  was  an  involuntary  exclamation  of  disgust  or 
a  sudden  motion  of  surprise  that  set  them  off.  but 
the  mobile  rank  of  water  fowl  burst  into  the  air  as 
if  a  mine  had  been  sprung  beneath  them,  and  van- 
ished like  wind-blown  smoke. 

Beginning  then,  I  have  since  rigidly  practiced 
what  before  I  had  only  preached — hunting  with- 
out a  gun. 


340 


SPORT. 


IHO  shall  say  in  what  true  sport 
consists  when  there  is  such 
diversity  of  opinion  concerning 
it?  One  might  think  it  is  in  the 
bigness  of  the  score,  since,  while 
we  deny  excess,  we  are  all  so 
prone  to  boast  of  it.  Is  it,  as  some  maintain,  exer- 
cise of  the  skill  required  to  find  and  bring  down  the 
game,  to  lure  and  catch  the  fish?  Is  it  in  the  diffi- 
culties overcome,  or  risk  of  danger?  Punch's  Eng- 
lish gentleman  says  to  his  German  shooting  friend, 
uThe  fact  is,  I  care  very  little  for  shooting  if  there 
is  not  an  element  of  danger."  uAch!  Den  you 
zhould  go  shooding  vid  me !  Vy,  it  vas  only  lashd 
veek  I  zhod  my  brodder-in-law  in  ze  shdum- 
merg."  Some  say  the  best  of  sport  is  in  the  inti- 
mate acquaintance  with  nature  to  which  it  brings 
one. 

One  sportsman  cannot  understand  how  another 
finds  sport  only  at  the  risk  of  his  life.  As  for  him- 
self, he  has  lost  no  grizzly  bears,  nor  does  he  de- 
sire a  shot  at  a  mountain  sheep  or  goat,  enough  to 
endanger  his  neck  for  the  sake  of  getting  it.  In- 

341 


Hunting  Without  a   Gun. 

deed,  he  forswears  his  favorite  sport  of  deer  hunt- 
ing, since  the  chances  of  being  shot  have  become  as 
great  as  those  of  getting  a  shot  at  the  game.  Safety 
and  comfort  are  essential  to  his  sport.  He  would 
not  freeze  in  a  blind  at  the  risk  of  pneumonia  for 
all  the  wildfowl  that  swim,  nor  parboil  himself  and 
brave  the  stings  of  mosquitoes  in  the  murky  mid- 
summer atmosphere  of  the  swamp,  though  wood- 
cock were  as  plenty  as  the  insects.  Countless  trout 
could  not  tempt  him  to  suffer  all  day  the  discomfort 
of  wet  feet  and  legs  in  the  ice-cold  brook,  with  the 
consequent  chances  of  rheumatism. 

Give  him  the  tempered  air  and  water  of  May 
and  June,  when  birds  are  singing  and  flowers 
blooming,  October  woods,  abated  of  the  nuisance 
of  insect  life,  and  perfumed  with  the  pungent  scent 
of  falling  leaves,  invigorating  with  air  neither  too 
warm  nor  too  cold,  with  fish  and  game  plenty  and 
not  too  wary,  and  his  ideal  of  sport  is  realized. 

If  he  could,  he  would  pursue  his  sport  as  did 
Kubla  Khan,  in  a  spacious  chamber,  luxuriously 
furnished  and  victualed,  and  borne  by  elephants. 
Seated  or  stretched  at  ease  therein,  the  mighty 
potentate  watched  the  flight  of  his  falcons  or  the 
coursing  of  his  leopards,  or  let  fly  his  arrows. 
Surely  this  was  the  refinement  of  luxurious  sports- 
manship. 

342 


Sport. 

The  man  who  estimates  his  day's  sport  by  the 
size  of  his  bag,  simply  disbelieves  the  man  who  pro- 
fesses to  be  satisfied  with  a  little  or  even  nothing 
tangible  to  show  for  his  outing.  How  can  there 
be  sport  without  the  excitement  of  frequent  shots 
and  the  possession  and  exercise  of  skill  which  makes 
them  successful? 

Another — perhaps  in  the  minority — would  main- 
tain that  it  is  not  the  largeness  of  the  score,  but  the 
interest  and  excitement  of  pursuit,  and  the  skill  ex- 
ercised that  constitute  sport.  That  to  obtain  one 
shot  at  wary  game,  to  make  one  successful  diffi- 
cult shot,  to  hook  and  land  one  large  and  cunning 
trout  with  nice  choice  of  lure  and  skillful  handling, 
is  sport  in  a  fuller  sense  than  easier  slaughter  of  a 
larger  bag  or  creel. 

The  man  who  hunts  foxes  on  foot,  and  shoots 
them  before  his  one  or  two  hounds,  swears  by  his 
safe  sport,  and  sees  nothing  unfair  in  that  which 
is  as  much  despised  by  him  who  risks  his  limbs  and 
neck  in  riding  to  the  pack  as  the  drag  hunt  is  by  the 
other.  One  counts  it  no  sport  to  shoot  without  the 
aid  of  a  trained  dog,  and  nothing  as  game  that  such 
a  dog  will  not  stand.  Another  is  content  to  stalk 
his  own  game,  and  almost  everything  wild  is  game 
to  him.  Highhole,  squirrel  and  woodchuck  help 
to  fill  his  bag,  and  he  enjoys  the  gathering  of  them 

343 


Hunting  Without  a   Gun. 

in  as  keenly  as  the  more  ambitious  sportsman  does 
the  scientific  taking  of  his  woodcock,  quail  and 
grouse.  One  is  satisfied  with  the  excitement  of 
shooting  at  flying  targets,  living  or  inanimate, 
thrown  from  a  trap ;  while  another  can  see  nothing 
but  cruelty,  or  better  than  boys'  play  in  such 
shooting. 

One  angler  is  happy  "yanking"  bullheads  and 
sunfish  from  quiet  waters  with  coarse  tackle  and  a 
rod  that  was  never  made  with  hands,  while  another 
would  find  no  more  sport  in  such  ignoble  pastime 
than  in  digging  the  worms  for  bait.  He  must  have 
delicate  tackle,  handled  with  nicety  of  skill  in  a 
well-fought  struggle  with  a  game  fish  to  make  fish- 
ing sport  for  him.  It  must  be  a  fine  art,  not  the 
hauling  out  of  fish  by  main  strength. 

One  sportsman  will  say,  with  fervor  of  convic- 
tion, that  "it  is  not  all  of  hunting  to  hunt,  nor  of 
fishing  to  fish;"  that  what  makes  the  pursuit  of  fish 
and  game  sport  to  him  is  the  communion  with 
nature  which  he  has  with  rod  and  gun  for  con- 
venient excuses  and  agreeable  adjuncts.  What  he 
sees  and  hears  are  more  to  him  than  anything  tangi- 
ble he  brings  home. 

No  one  can  become  a  successful  shooter  or 
angler  without  acquaintance  with  the  habits  and 
haunts  of  the  objects  of  his  pursuit,  which  means  in 

344 


Sport. 

some  sort  the  study  of  nature,  which  surely  begets 
love  of  her.  One  must  know  when,  where,  and  on 
what  his  game  feeds ;  when  and  where  it  rests,  and 
its  various  haunts  at  different  seasons.  Then  he 
sees  how  admirably  adapted  each  is  to  its  manner 
of  life;  how  formed  to  obtain  its  food,  to  catch 
its  prey,  to  escape  its  enemies ;  how  colored,  dull  or 
bright,  to  escape  detection,  yet  always  in  some  way 
beautiful,  as  are  its  surroundings  and  the  whole 
great  universe. 

Thus  one  unwittingly  becomes  a  student  of 
nature,  and  consequently  her  lover,  until  at  last  the 
study  and  the  love  become  the  chief  attractions  of 
fields,  woods  and  waters,  wherein  he  finds  satisfac- 
tion and  brings  home  rich  spoils,  though  they  yield 
little  or  nothing  to  gun  and  rod  that  now  are  only 
pretexts  for  spending  the  day  abroad. 

Among  the  multiplicity  of  answers  from  these 
and  many  more,  we  get  no  definite  one.  We  must 
be  satisfied  with  that  which  comes  nearest  our  own 
idea  of  what  constitutes  sport,  and,  spreading  the 
broad  mantle  of  charity  over  all,  despise  not  kin- 
ship with  any  who,  by  means  not  unfair  or  dis- 
honorable, seek  diversion  in  the  field  in  fowling, 
hunting  and  fishing. 


345 


MAKING  THE   MOST  OF   IT. 

|T  is  a  wise  and  comfortable 
philosophy  that  teaches  us  to 
make  the  most  of  what  we  have, 
and  be  content  therewith ;  to  ac- 
cept thankfully  the  small  things 
that  are  at  hand  rather  than 
weary  our  hearts  with  longing  for  the  greater 
things  which  we  cannot  reach. 

If  we  cannot  have  the  loaf,  let  us  eat  the  crust, 
and  be  assured  that  with  a  healthy  appetite  we  shall 
find  it  sweet  and  wholesome. 

If  the  land  of  large  game  and  the  rivers  of  the 
salmon  are  as  far  from  us  as  the  sunset  and  the 
sunrise,  and  there  are  many  lions  in  the  long  paths 
that  lead  to  them,  there  are  pleasant,  if  narrower, 
fields  and  woods  and  bright  waters  nearer  to  us 
that  we  have  overlooked  when  our  eyes  were  on  the 
glorified  peaks  and  the  gilded  clouds. 

Let  us  school  our  desires  to  moderation,  and 
learn  to  be  satisfied  with  whatever  these  limited 
hunting  grounds  may  give  us,  and  they  will  sur- 
prise us  with  their  bounty.  We  may  study  the 

346 


Making   the  Most   of   It. 

book  of  nature  the  closer  when  the  pages  are  few 
and  always  at  hand. 

Gilbert  White  found  an  ample  field  of  observa- 
tion in  his  own  parish,  and  Thoreau  discovered 
more  in  the  fenced  acres  of  Concord  woodland  and 
in  its  tamed  river  than  in  the  vast  forests  and  wild 
streams  of  Maine. 

In  truth,  a  man  may  see  much  of  nature  without 
traveling  far,  for  she  will  reveal  herself,  in  some 
degree,  to  whoever  approaches  as  a  true  lover,  for 
many  of  her  charms  need  only  his  clear  eye  to  see 
them,  and  to  his  quickened  ear  she  gives  the  music  of 
her  voices.  She  displays  charms  that  never  grow 
old  in  all  time  nor  stale  with  continual  presentation 
—the  budding  and  bursting  of  leaf  and  flower, 
their  growth  and  change,  the  gorgeous  ripening, 
the  dun  decay,  the  ghosts  of  shrubs  and  trees- 
specters,  but  never  repulsive,  always  graceful  and 
virile  with  promise  of  resurrection,  and  over  all 
these  changes,  the  sun,  the  blue  sky  and  painted 
clouds,  or  the  gray  and  somber  canopy;  through 
all,  the  perpetual  shifting  of  light  and  shade. 

For  him  who  listens,  without  far  seeking,  are  the 
songs  of  the  wind  among  the  trees,  of  the  rushing 
brooks,  of  ripples  kissing  pebbly  shores,  of  birds 
that  woo  their  mates,  the  shrilling  and  droning  of 
innumerable  insects,  all  in  most  harmonious  discord. 

347 


Hunting  Without   a   Gun. 

If  we  may  not  content  ourselves  with  the  gentle 
sportsmanship  which  needs  not  blood  to  satisfy  it, 
we  may  at  least  imitate  it  in  our  moderation.  The 
skill  to  find  game  comes  with  a  knowledge  of  its 
habits,  and  is  a  finer  art  than  the  skill  required  to 
kill  it.  The  scarcer  and  warier  the  game,  the 
subtler  must  be  the  woodcraft,  while  a  moderation 
in  killing  is  enforced  that,  if  practiced  in  the  days 
of  abundance,  would  have  preserved  the  game. 

One  may  have  but  little  to  show  for  his  skill 
with  the  gun  and  yet  be  the  most  skillful  of  hunters. 
It  is  a  greater  achievement  to  see  the  partridge 
drum,  or  the  woodcock  probe  the  swamp  mold, 
or  to  catch  the  wild  duck  asleep,  each  in  its  fancied 
seclusion,  than  to  bring  down  game  from  its 
startled  flight,  as  the  mere  marksman  may  by  the 
score  in  a  battue.  One  so  finding  his  game  may 
take  home  with  him  something  sweeter  and  more 
enduring  than  its  flesh,  something  finer  than  its 
plumage;  may  take  from  the  mink,  the  muskrat 
and  the  unseen  otter  a  richer  spoil  than  their  fur, 
in  some  secret  of  their  lives,  and  yet,  if  he  will, 
leave  them  and  the  wild  world  no  poorer  for  all 
he  takes. 

But  if,  after  all  such  philosophizing,  we  cannot 
be  content  without  tangible  trophies,  let  us  be 
assured  that  a  little  wrell  earned  is  to  be  valued 

348 


Making   the  Most  of  It. 

more  than  cheaply  gained  superfluity,  and  so  be 
satisfied. 

If  we  may  not  have  salmon  nor  trout  nor  gray- 
ling, nor  so  much  as  bass,  there  are  pickerel  and 
perch  and  bream  in  the  streams  we  know.  The 
fewer  they  are,  the  warier  and  the  greater  the  skill 
that  is  needed  to  take  them,  and  the  greater  the 
triumph  of  capture,  and,  between  bites,  the  more 
time  for  contemplation,  which  is  a  part  of  the  true 
angler's  pastime,  and  let  us  be  content  if  it  is  the 
larger  part,  and  so  in  all  our  recreations  make  the 
most  and  the  best  of  what  is  vouchsafed  us. 


349 


THE   SHUT-IN   SPORTSMAN. 


F  all  who  are  kept  indoors  by 
bodily  infirmity,  one  might 
naturally  think  the  confinement 
would  be  most  irksome  to  him 
whose  recreations  are  entirely 
of  the  outdoor  world;  yet 
actual  observation  does  not  furnish  proof  that  he 
bears  the  privation  with  less  fortitude  than  fellow 
mortals  of  different  proclivities. 

What  substitute  can  he  find  inside  four  close 
walls  for  the  exhilaration  of  the  sports  of  wood- 
land and  water?  What,  compared  with  those  the 
scholar  finds  in  his  books,  the  artist  in  his  pictures, 
the  romancer  in  his  dreams,  or  the  poet  in  his 
fancies?  Even  the  man  without  these  resources 
may  at  least  stolidly  endure,  one  would  think.  But 
strangely  enough  he  who  loses  least  chafes  most. 
The  sportsman  has  the  memory  of  past  pleasures 
to  comfort  him,  and  if  he  be  of  those  who  enjoy 
most  keenly,  he  has  imagination  and  invention  to 
call  to  his  aid.  His  well  and  long  used  gun — com- 
panion of  many  a  day  of  supreme  happiness — 

350 


The    Shut-In    Sportsman. 

brings  back  vivid  recollections  of  many  of  them. 
Not  the  least  of  these  was  the  day  when  the  deli- 
cate penciling  of  the  browned  barrel  was  untar- 
nished, the  polished  stock  unmarred  by  dent  or 
scratch,  and  the  whole  shining  masterpiece  of  the 
gunsmith's  art  was  redolent  of  the  faint  oily  smell 
that  only  the  gun  diffuses.  How  proud  he  was  to 
be  its  owner,  to  feel  its  perfect  fit  and  balance,  and 
to  have  such  faith  in  his  ability  to  hit  his  bird  every 
time  with  such  a  weapon.  He  smiles  now  as  he 
recalls  how  effectually  the  overweening  conceit  was 
taken  out  of  him.  For  all  that  humiliation  the  un- 
forgotten  day  was  full  of  happiness. 

The  softly  soughing  July  wind  brings  in  at  the 
open  window  some  subtle  reminder  of  the  spicy 
fragrance  of  pine  and  hemlock  distilled  by  a  Sep- 
tember sun,  and  he  sees  again  the  asters  shining  in 
the  woodland  shade,  the  yellow  of  fading  wood 
plants,  the  red  glow  of  huckleberry  leaves  among 
the  haze  of  blue  fruit,  the  feeding  partridges,  un- 
seen till  they  burst  upward  with  a  roar  that  upset 
his  nerves  and  caused  the  waste  of  two  charges. 
After  reloading  from  the  brand-new  spring-top 
flask,  the  lever-charger  shot  pouch,  and  with  the 
wads,  home-made  from  cardboard,  all  marvels  of 
celerity  in  their  day,  came  the  cautious  search  for 
the  scattered  birds,  with  the  firm  resolve  to  keep 


Hunting  Without  a   Gun. 

steady  next  time  at  all  hazards.  His  good  resolu- 
tion was  presently  rewarded,  when  a  bird  that 
sprang  up  almost  in  his  face  was  cut  down  and 
killed  clean  by  a  shot  fired  at  just  the  right 
moment,  and  so  glad  was  he  to  have  regained  mas- 
tery of  himself  that  the  whole  scene  is  so  distinctly 
imprinted  on  memory  he  could  go  directly  to  the 
very  spot  after  all  the  years  of  change. 

Some  slight  thing  in  some  quite  unlike  scene, 
some  sound,  some  smell,  recalls  other  happy  days 
of  the  past,  which  he  lives  over  again  and  again. 
Some  befell  where  the  silver  channel  winds  through 
countless  acres  of  marsh,  now  when  it  was  all  in  the 
sameness  of  summer  green,  save  where  the  bloom- 
ing button  bush,  thronged  with  nesting  redwings, 
adorned  it  with  a  profusion  of  white  blossoms ;  now 
when  a  tinge  of  yellow  pervaded  it,  varied  with 
splashes  of  russet,  orange  and  red,  and  the  tangled 
copses  of  button  bush  were  islands  of  green,  with 
here  and  there  a  flame  of  water  maple  burning  like 
a  beacon.  All  a-whirl  about  the  passing  boat  rose 
the  redwings,  thick  as  bees  around  a  hive,  with  a 
renewed  uproar  of  thundering  wings  at  the  round- 
ing of  each  bend.  Perhaps  it  was  a  winter  day, 
when  the  broad  level  of  marsh  and  water  was  a 
white,  silent  plain  to  the  eye,  lifeless  and  deserted, 
though  there  was  a  stir  of  busy  inhabitants  under 

352 


The   Shut-In    Sportsman. 

the  snow-covered  thatch  of  the  muskrat  houses. 
Faint  and  far  came  the  echo  of  a  hound's  voice, 
and  following  its  direction,  two  dark  specks  were 
seen,  apparently  creeping  nearer,  their  speed  in- 
creasing as  they  grew,  taking  on  the  forms  of  fox 
and  dog.  The  heart  beat  fast  to  the  swelling  music, 
till  at  last  came  the  opportunity  and  the  shot,  and 
triumph  of  success.  His  nerves  thrill  again  at  the 
memory  of  it  all,  and  he  is  glad  to  have  lived  in 
those  days,  and  to  remember  them. 

The  boys,  who  are  in  the  first  enthusiasm  of 
sportsmanship,  are  wild  with  envy  when  he  tells 
them  of  the  game  there  was  in  all  the  woodland 
and  marsh  when  he  was  a  boy,  and  of  the  great  fish 
that  crowded  the  waters.  As  they  bewail  the  fate 
that  brought  them  into  the  world  so  late,  he  is  re- 
minded how  he  did  the  same  when  the  old  men  told 
him  like  tales  of  the  big  game  of  their  younger 
days,  all  gone  before  his  time,  and  he,  too,  is  a 
boy — not  valuing  present  blessings,  but  wishing  the 
past  returned  or  the  future  reached  wherein  were 
all  possibilities.  Yes,  a  boy  again,  with  his  flint- 
lock musket,  proud  of  the  battered  weapon, 
though  it  had  tricks  of  sometimes  missing  fire  and 
flashing  in  the  pan,  and  always  kicked,  due  to  its 
being  breech  burnt — so  it  was  said.  Though  both 
eyes  were  shut,  he  always  knew  when  it  went  off. 

353 


Hunting   Without  a   Gun. 

When  his  young  visitors  tell  of  a  piece  of  old 
woodland  sacrificed,  of  some  ledge  shorn  of  its 
trees,  of  river  banks  wantonly  stripped  of  shade, 
he  is  glad  that  he  cannot  see  the  devastated  scenes 
— it  is  better  to  dream  of  them  as  he  knew  them 
than  to  awaken  to  their  spoiled  reality,  and  the 
pain  of  impotent  rage  against  the  spoilers. 

Can  that  be  only  the  slow  stir  of  wind-swayed 
boughs,  so  like  the  changing  murmur  of  the  swift 
river  fretting  on  its  gravelly  bed  ?  So  like  it  that 
he  can  fancy  himself  stealing  along  the  bank  be- 
hind the  fringe  of  willows,  rod  in  hand,  of  a  fine 
June  morning.  The  lush  intervale  grass  is  dotted 
with  the  first  buttercups,  and  the  fragrance  of  wild 
grape  blossoms  is  in  the  air;  a  muskrat  swims  out 
from  the  shore,  towing  a  green  branch  to  his  bur- 
row; a  green  heron  flaps  awkwardly  from  perch  to 
perch;  under  a  drooping  willow  a  bass  snaps  a 
drowning  fly  with  a  swirl  of  the  green  water,  invit- 
ing the  angler's  cast.  He  is  no  longer  a  prisoner 
of  the  sick  room,  but  is  fishing  again  in  his  favorite 
stream. 

In  autumn,  when  the  falling  leaves  scurry  past 
his  window,  in  spirit  he  is  out  in  the  brown  woods, 
his  nostrils  almost  catching  the  subtle,  indescrib- 
able aroma  of  ripe  leaves.  He  hears  the  wood  folk 
astir,  the  rustle  of  their  feet,  their  various  voices 

354 


The    Shut-In    Sportsman. 

speaking  concerning  his  intrusion,  and  he  hears 
those  weird,  mysterious  voices  of  the  woods  that 
come  from  no  living  thing.  In  the  old,  old  days, 
when  the  world  was  young  and  people  were  not  so 
unbelieving,  but  took  their  fancies  in  good  faith, 
these  were  the  voices  of  wood  nymphs  and  fairies 
conversing  and  calling  one  to  another,  not  the  pip- 
ing of  the  wind  and  the  chafing  of  boughs. 

The  swish  of  the  first  snowflakes  against  the  win- 
dow, a  glimpse  of  snow-covered  roofs,  bring  him 
visions  of  the  winter  woods,  muffled  and  carpeted 
in  white,  wherein  is  written  the  latest  doings  of  the 
wood  folk,  where  a  fox  had  made  a  stealthy  scout. 
Here  is  recorded  what  might  be  taken  as  the  story 
of  the  midnight  snowshoe  sports  of  half  a  dozen 
hares,  if  the  tragic  finis  were  not  written  in  blood 
and  Reynard's  fatal  leap  imprinted  on  the  snow, 
where  there  was  an  end  to  all  the  broad  pad  marks. 
The  partridge  has  set  down  in  the  neatest  footprint 
her  devious  wandering  from  her  last  roosting  place 
to  the  concluding  wing-marks  where  she  took  flight 
upward  to  breakfast  of  buds  in  a  tall  poplar.  Squir- 
rels have  linked  so  many  trees  and  caches  of  nuts 
together;  so  many  woodpeckers,  nuthatches  and 
chickadees  are  seen,  that  one  wonders  how  woods 
so  populous  can  be  so  silent,  though  snow-muffled 
and  echoless.  Nothing  is  heard  but  a  party  of  jays 

355 


Hunting   Without  a   Gun. 

clamoring  over  their  latest  discovery.  Such  clues 
lead  the  imprisoned  sportsman  to  the  freedom  of 
outdoors. 

There  is,  however,  a  key  that  opens  the  door  to 
a  far  wider  range,  with  comrades  who  take  him  to 
the  farthest  corner  of  the  wide  world.  One  leads 
him  among  the  familiar  scenes  of  his  youth.  An- 
other into  the  pathless  gloom  of  northern  forests, 
the  home  of  the  moose  and  caribou,  or  farther  to 
the  frozen  haunts  of  the  musk-ox,  or  to  the  wild 
Northwest,  where  only  can  be  seen  the  last  rem- 
nant of  the  wood  buffalo,  and  to  Alaska  and  the 
Klondike.  Another  takes  him  to  the  Rockies  and 
shows  him  the  elk  in  wonderful  herds,  the  antelope, 
the  wild  sheep,  like  statues  carved  out  of  the  rocks 
whereon  they  stand,  or  points  out  to  him  white 
specks  moving  along  the  giddy  crags,  which  are  the 
rare  and  wild  white  goats.  Another  shows  him  the 
savage  grizzly,  king  of  American  beasts.  At  night 
by  the  camp-fire  he  listens  to  the  wail  of  the  pan- 
ther, the  long  howl  of  the  wolf,  and  sleeps 
the  restful  sleep  of  the  just.  These  most  genial 
companions  hunt  tigers  with  him  in  India,  ele- 
phants and  lions  in  Africa,  shoot  foxes  in  New 
England,  ride  after  them  to  the  hounds  in  Virginia, 
catch  tarpon  in  Floridian  waters,  salmon  in  Can- 
adian rivers — in  short,  share  with  him  all  his 

356 


The   Shut-In   Sportsman. 

old  sports,  and  initiate  him  into  new  ones,  and  by 
their  ready  pens  and  cameras  do  all  that  brethren 
of  the  gun  and  rod  can  for  another  to  lighten  his 
burden  of  weariness  and  pain. 


357 


THE  FARMER'S  BOY. 


O  one  among  the  lovers  of  nature 
recalls  more  fondly  the  scenes 
of  childhood  and  youth  than  he 
who  was  once  a  farmer's  boy, 
but  who  in  youth  or  early  man- 
hood has  wandered  far  from 


the  farm  and  the  paternal  roof  in  quest  of  fame 
and  fortune. 

In  all  the  varied  scenes  of  the  larger  world  he 
has  come  to  know  in  later  life,  none  have  the 
charm  of  those  his  young  eyes  first  beheld,  and  the 
sounds  that  grew  as  familiar  to-  his  ears  as  house- 
hold words. 

Alps  or  Andes  rear  their  peaks  of  eternal  snow 
in  no  loftier  grandeur  than  did  the  blue  hills  of  the 
strange,  far-off  land  of  the  next  county  lift  their 
tops  to  catch  the  autumnal  snowfalls  while  the  val- 
leys at  their  feet  were  yet  green  with  aftermath. 
The  storm-swept  ocean  is  not  more  majestic  in  its 
resistless  rage  than  was  the  turbulent  lake  beating 
its  rocky  rim  with  a  fury  of  small  waves ;  nor  is  the 

358 


The    Farmer  s    Roy. 

Niagara's  tremendous  plunge  more  awful  than  was 
the  downpour  of  the  mill  dam  in  a  spring  flood. 

Nowhere  are  there  scenes  of  more  tranquil 
beauty  than  along  this  mill  pond  that  loops  pasture 
and  meadow  land  in  its  placid  curves,  or  where  the 
quick  stream  comes  clattering  and  flashing  to  it  out 
of  the  shadow  of  the  woods,  or  where,  in  the  heart 
of  the  woods,  the  slow  reaches  crawl  among  the 
shadows  and  never  wrinkle  the  reflections  of  bank 
and  tree,  or  where  noisy  rapids  toss  the  shivered 
doubles  amid  a  confusion  of  foam  bells  and  scat- 
tered sunbeams.  Here  the  wood  duck  reared  her 
dusky  brood,  in  near  neighborhood  to  the  grouse 
and  her  callow  family,  and  it  was  here,  perhaps, 
that  the  farmer's  boy  got  his  first  shot  at  each  and 
knew  the  ecstacy  of  his  first  success,  and  in  the  pond 
caught  his  first  big  fish — joys  that  could  never  be 
quite  repeated  in  a  lifetime. 

What  a  pleasant  place  was  the  hill  pasture  that 
slopes  upward  in  grassy  undulations  to  the  wood- 
side,  where  the  ferns  grow  rank  in  the  out-reaching 
shade,  and  sumacs  and  elders  canopy  and  embower 
an  old  wall  beneath  a  loftier  growth  of  scattered 
hickories.  Thither  the  boy  felt  himself  always 
drawn  in  the  drowsy  August  afternoons,  though 
the  cows  were  waiting  at  the  bars,  for  he  must 
know  how  the  broods  of  young  grouse  were  grow- 

359 


Hunting   Without  a   Gun. 

ing,  and  whether  the  squirrels  were  coming  out  to 
the  nut  trees  yet.  What  a  thrill  ran  through  his 
nerves  when  he  heard  the  harsh  barking  of  the 
gray  squirrel  in  an  outlying  hickory,  the  dribble  of 
chips  through  the  leaves  from  a  gnawed  nut.  And 
what  an  ecstatic  shock,  when  by  ones,  twos,  and 
threes  the  grouse  sprang  from  their  interrupted 
feast  on  the  drooping  cymes  of  elderberries  and 
burst  through  the  green  roof  of  sumacs,  the  young 
birds  almost  full  grown  and  strong  of  flight,  shak- 
ing thunder  from  their  wings.  What  a  glorious 
day  he  planned  that  should  be  that  he  could  have 
for  his  own,  writh  the  battered  but  precious  old  gun, 
the  squirrels,  and  the  partridges.  How  could  he 
ever  wait  for  it?  He  has  learned  to  wait  since. 

There  were  the  old  woods  that  clothed  the 
ledges  and  ravines  of  the  hill  beyond,  where  he  first 
felt  the  exquisite  delight  of  fox  hunting  when 
leaves  were  in  the  glory  of  autumnal  color,  and  cliff 
and  gorge  rang  with  the  wild  music  of  the  hounds; 
and  where,  in  a  January  thaw,  he  first  tracked  the 
raccoon  in  the  soft  snow  to  his  lair. 

There,  too,  when  the  farm  hands  turned  lumber- 
men for  the  nonce,  he  watched  the  warfare  against 
the  venerable  pines  and  hemlocks,  and  beheld  with 
sorrow  their  mighty  downfall.  Yet  it  was  a  boy's 
sorrow,  not  of  a  sort  to  spoil  a  youthful  appetite 

360 


The   Farmers    Boy. 

whetted  by  exercise  and  the  wholesome  atmosphere 
of  the  winter  woods.  Such  a  one  he  brought  to  the 
cold  dinner,  served  at  noon  around  a  roaring  fire. 
It  was  the  sweetest  meal  he  ever  tasted,  and,  like 
great  John  Ridd,  he  thanked  God  for  the  room 
that  was  inside  him,  which  was,  indeed,  marvelous, 
considering  his  outward  dimensions.  It  was  the 
first  realization  of  a  dream  of  camp  life,  and 
needed  but  little  imagination  to  people  the  sur- 
rounding forest  with  terrible  savages  and  wild 
beasts. 

Amid  all  these  scenes  he  dreamed  day  dreams  of 
the  great  outer  world  that  was  to  be  his  to  conquer 
when  he  grew  to  manhood,  which  would  make  all 
things  attainable — wealth,  power,  and  perfect  hap- 
piness. Now  he  dreams  of  those  blissful  days  of 
boyhood  when  he  was  happier  than  he  ever  could 
be  again,  and  happily  knew  it  not.  No  wonder 
that  he  holds  them  dear,  and  takes  a  sad  pleasure 
in  living  them  over  in  memory — a  sadder  pleasure 
in  revisiting  their  scenes;  for,  alas!  how  changed 
are  they  in  this  world  of  swift  change. 

Woods  that  once  seemed  to  him  as  enduring  as 
the  stars,  have  utterly  vanished,  devoured  by  the 
insatiate  saw  mill,  pulp  mill  and  engine;  and  the 
once  full  streams  are  shrunken.  The  wood  folk 
whom  he  once  knew  so  well  are  gone  from  their  old 

361 


Hunting  Without  a  Gun, 

haunts;  the  flowers  and  plants  that  he  alone  could 
find,  grow  and  bloom  no  more  in  the  sunburned, 
arid  ledges  that  once  nurtured  them  in  perpetual 
shade.  The  leaves  of  nature's  primer,  wherein  he 
unwittingly  learned  to  read  her  secrets,  and  to  love 
her,  are  torn  and  disfigured.  But  the  old  lessons 
are  not  forgotten,  and  he  loves  her  still,  never  so 
fondly. 

When  it  falls  to  the  lot  of  the  farmer's  boy  to 
continue  upon  the  paternal  acres,  and  the  boy's 
tastes  are  preserved  in  the  man,  he  will  still  find 
days,  though  they  be  few,  for  the  indulgence  of 
them.  With  something  of  youthful  zest  he  fishes 
in  the  stream  where  he  caught  his  first  fish,  and 
hunts  the  infrequent  grouse  and  wild  duck  in  the 
old  haunts  that  were  populous  with  them  in  the 
old  days.  He  has  a  handsome  breechloader  now, 
but  it  is  not  so  precious  a  weapon  to  the  man  as  to 
the  boy  was  the  battered  fowling  piece  with  its 
clumsy  lock,  altered  by  the  neighborhood  black- 
smith from  flint  to  percussion,  and  its  mended  stock 
and  crooked  ramrod.  The  shoulder  of  the  coat  is 
not  worn  through  by  the  new  weapon,  as  the  boy's 
jacket  wras  by  carrying  the  old.  The  heart  does 
not  beat  so  high  beneath  the  coat  as  it  did  beneath 
the  jacket  when  autumn  leaves  are  underfoot  and 
the  elusive  odor  of  autumn  woods  teases  the  nos- 

362 


The    Farmer  s    Boy. 

trils,  for  alas !  youth  comes  only  once  in  a  lifetime. 
There  are  farmers'  boys  of  another  sort,  who 
spend  their  lives  on  a  farm,  who1  never  see  the 
beauty  that  is  all  around  them.  To  them  a  tree  is 
so  much  lumber,  so  many  cords  of  wood,  and  noth- 
ing more;  a  moss-grown  rock  is  rubbish  or  avail- 
able material,  as  the  case  may  be;  the  brook,  a  con- 
venience for  watering  stock.  He  would  not  spare 
for  the  woodcock's  sake  a  rod  of  alder  copse  that 
the  brook  crawls  through,  any  more  than  for 
beauty's  sake  he  would  save  the  willow  that  ripples 
the  current  with  its  trailing  branches.  His  mission 
seems  to  be  to  destroy,  not  to  preserve,  the  beauty 
of  that  portion  of  the  world  which  has  been  com- 
mitted to  his  care.  He  is  above  the  weakness  of  in- 
dulgence in  field  sports,  which  he  considers  a  mere 
pretext  for  useless  idleness.  Therefore  he  is  quite 
indifferent  to  the  protection  of  fish  and  game,  for 
since  he  is  virtuous  there  shall  be  no  cakes  and  ale. 
He  may  be  a  better  and  more  successful  farmer, 
but  not  a  wiser  nor  a  happier  man,  than  his  brother, 
who  finds  a  wholesome,  harmless  recreation  with 
rod  and  gun  in  his  own  woods  and  streams,  and 
though  confessing  to  no  sentimentalism,  gets 
genuine  pleasure  from  communion  with  nature. 


363 


OLD  BOATS. 


along  the  level 
shores  of  meadow,  pasture  and 
woodland,  I  sometimes  come 
upon  an  old  boat  that,  having 
outlived  its  usefulness,  has  been 
abandoned  by  its  owner,  appar- 
ently with  as  little  sentiment  and  regard  for  what 
it  has  been  as  that  with  which  a  worn-out  garment 
is  cast  aside.  When  it  was  hauled  ashore  for  the 
last  time  at  its  accustomed  landing  by  its  master, 
who  beached  it  with  no  securer  fastening,  the  next 
spring  or  autumn  flood  crept  up  and  dragged  it 
away,  to  drift  forlorn  and  unguided  but  by  the 
caprice  of  wind  and  current.  Whoever  chooses 
may  approprite  it  to  whatever  use  he  can  find  for 
it.  Stranded  or  afloat,  lonely,  lifeless,  it  becomes 
the  familiar  of  all  wild  creatures,  who  learn  to  be 
as  fearless  of  it  as  of  any  other  inert  bit  of  drift- 
wood. Muskrats  board  the  water-logged  derelict, 
and  wild  ducks  swim  as  its  consort.  After  blowing 
hither  and  yon  on  many  idle  voyages,  bumping  its 
prow  on  various  inhospitable  steep  shores,  and 

364 


Old   Boats. 

scraping  its  sides  against  insulated  trees  till, 
beached  far  up  on  the  flooded  lands,  it  found  a  rest- 
ing place  at  last  among  floodwood  and  driftweeds. 

One  knows  at  first  sight  that  the  poor  craft  is 
no  truant,  brought  to  a  chance  port  without  help  of 
paddle,  oar  or  sail,  but  that  it  came  to  such  hap- 
hazard stranding  through  slow  neglect  and  final 
abandonment,  apparent  enough  in  its  worn  and 
faded  paint,  in  its  rents  and  patches  that  have 
grown  clumsier  and  more  careless  year  by  year,  in 
seams  that  gape  too  wide  for  pitch  and  oakum  to 
mend.  One  feels  a  kind  of  pity  as  he  contemplates 
these  forsaken  wrecks  that  once  played  their  part  in 
the  life  of  men,  and  gave  their  share  in  some  meas- 
ure to  its  work  or  pastime.  Each  tears  some 
plainly  written  fragments  of  its  history  whereof 
imagination  may  fill  out  the  chapters. 

Lying  broadside  to,  among  the  driftwood  of 
which  she  is  a  part,  and  a  little  below  the  lighter 
line  of  driftweed  that  hems  the  green  meadow  with 
a  band  of  faded  drab,  is  an  ancient  scow  of  primi- 
tive pattern.  The  straight  lines  of  her  battered, 
unpainted  sides  are  not  relieved  by  the  slightest 
curve  from  bow  to  stern,  from  gunwale  to  bottom  ; 
the  rigid  inch  and  a  half  pine  plank  would  not  have 
yielded  to  such  frivolity  if  her  builder  had  de- 
manded it,  which  he,  of  as  plain  stuff  and  angular 

365 


Hunting   Without  a   Gun. 

mold,  certainly  never  did.  The  flat  bottom  slants 
upward  at  the  same  angles  to  the  broad,  square 
bow  and  stern,  which  can  only  be  distinguished 
from  one  another  now  by  a  hole  for  a  jackstaff  in 
the  short  forward  deck  and  various  cinder  marks 
upon  it — scars  received  in  nocturnal  warfare 
against  the  fishes.  The  thwarts  are  gone,  one 
clumsy  rowlock  has  been  wrenched  off,  the  other  re- 
mains with  the  stump  of  its  one  wooden  tholepin, 
that  once  held  an  awkward  oar  in  place  by  a 
wooden  loop.  One  of  the  crosswise  bottom  boards 
is  gone,  and  in  its  place  a  parallelogram  of  green 
herbage  is  growing,  wild  grasses  and  English 
grasses,  with  groundnut  vines  binding  them  to- 
gether, and  a  sprawl  of  five-fingers  holding  up  a 
humble  offering  of  yellow  blossoms.  All  the  gap- 
ing seams  are  calked  with  spires  of  grass,  and  moss 
is  gathering  on  the  heel  marks  of  the  owners,  who 
long  since  made  their  last  voyage  in  this  craft. 

In  the  days  of  her  life  she  was  busy  and  useful. 
She  assisted  in  the  building  of  timber  rafts  and 
then  towed  them  to  the  saw  mills ;  voyaged  to  the 
grist  mills  with  her  owner's  grain;  cruised  along 
shore,  gathering  driftwood  for  his  kitchen  fire; 
made  trips  to  the  lake  for  sand.  On  many  another 
useful  voyage  she  pursued  her  slow  course  to  the 
rhythmic  thump,  creak  and  splash  of  oars,  and 

366 


Old   Boats. 

heaved  long  sighs  as  her  broad  prow  breasted  the 
waters. 

Parties  of  hay-makers  took  passage  on  her  in 
droughty  seasons,  when  the  upland  grass  was  scant, 
to  mow  the  rank  marsh  growth.  This  they  carried 
on  poles  and  piled  in  stacks  stilted  above  the 
autumnal  overflow  to  await  hauling  by  teams  in 
winter.  These  marsh  stacks  loomed  up  on  the  flat, 
shorn  expanse  like  mammoth  muskrat  houses.  You 
may  still  find  among  the  driftwood  the  shoes 
worn  smoother  by  long  attrition  than  their  first 
rude  fashioning  left  them. 

The  sober  craft  indulged  in  occasional  play 
spells,  yet  carried  into  them  something  of  the  staid 
and  business-like  character  of  her  everyday  life. 
In  windless  spring  nights,  when  the  marshes  were 
flooded  and  fish  swam  where  the  haymakers 
plodded  in  September,  she  cruised  over  the  same 
ground,  her  way  lighted  by  a  flaring  jack,  full-fed 
with  fat  pine.  Behind  her  stood  the  spearman,  his 
intent  face  illuminated  by  the  red  glare,  his  weapon 
in  hand  ready  to  spring  to  the  deadly  poise.  Be- 
hind, in  shifting  light  and  shadow,  sat  or  stood  the 
paddler  or  poleman,  steadily  plying  his  chosen 
implement,  to  whose  strokes  the  heavy  boat  moved 
steadily  forward. 

Frightened  water  fowl  sprang  to  flight  before  it, 
367 


Hunting   Without  a   Gun. 

brightly  illuminated  for  an  instant,  then  flashed 
out  like  sparks  quenched  in  the  darkness.  A  dazed 
muskrat  floated  motionless  in  the  full  glare  of  the 
torch,  then  dived  with  a  sudden  resounding  splash 
that  startled  spearman  and  paddler  from  their 
silence.  Lighting  the  broad,  glittering  water  circle, 
whose  edge  was  gnawed  at  and  bitten  by  reaching 
shadows,  it  crept  along  the  shore,  here  naked,  there 
fringed  with  unleaved  trees  that  materialized  in 
gaunt  specters  out  of  the  mystery  of  darkness. 
Thus  the  old  boat  made  her  wandering  voyage 
and  gathered  her  various  fare;  then  with  light 
quenched  went  into  the  darkened  homewrard  way. 
In  showery  summer  days,  when  thrifty  house- 
wives said  it  rained  too  hard  for  men  to  work  out 
of  doors,  and  they  could  go  fishing,  the  scow  was 
moored,  bow  and  stern,  to  stakes  alongside  the 
channel,  where  the  crew  angled  in  moist  discom- 
fort and  a  dreary  monotony  of  sound,  the  steady 
tinkle  of  raindrops  on  the  black  water,  the  thin 
bass  of  the  bullfrogs,  the  purr  of  rain  on  distant 
woods,  among  which  the  monosyllabic  discourse  of 
the  anglers  and  the  splash  of  their  sinkers  fell  at 
intervals  without  jarring  the  dull  concord,  while 
the  sharp  metallic  clatter  of  a  kingfisher  berated 
them  for  their  misuse  of  his  favorite  perches,  the 
fishing  stakes.  In  halves  of  broken  hay  days,  dur- 

36B 


Old   Boats. 

ing  treacherous  dog-day  weather,  the  scow  went 
trolling  for  pickerel,  the  channel's  length  from  the 
falls  to  the  broad  blue  bay  of  the  lake,  or  with 
seine  and  elm  bark  ropes  folded  and  coiled  in  a 
great  heap  on  her  wide  stern,  took  chief  part  in 
seine  hauling  at  the  sandbar. 

A  staunch  craft  she  has  been,  returning  with  re- 
sounding stroke  and  uncompromising  bow  the 
buffets  of  Champlain's  white-capped  waves.  Now 
all  her  days  of  work  and  pastime  are  spent.  A  for- 
lorn vagabond,  she  is  no  one's  boat — anyone's 
driftwood.  Some  farther  reaching  spring  flood 
than  that  which  stranded  her  here  may  set  her 
afloat  again,  to  wallow,  gunwale  deep,  through  the 
troubled  waters,  and  be  beached  on  some  other 
shore,  or  cast  piecemeal,  here  and  there,  in  unrecog- 
nizable fragments.  Wherever  she  voyages  she  will 
have  no  navigators  but  the  idle  winds  and  waves 
and  currents. 

In  the  shade  of  shore-lining  trees  that  annually 
bathe  ankle-deep  in  the  spring  floods,  when  the 
pickerel  swim  among  their  bolls  and  the  painted 
plumage  of  the  wood  drake  floats  double  beside 
their  gray  reflections,  one  stumbles  upon  the  half- 
stripped  bones  of  an  old  trapping  skiff.  Though  of 
almost  as  primitive  mold,  she  is  of  very  different 
pattern  from  the  scow.  Short  and  narrow,  sharp 

369 


Hunting  Without  a   Gun. 

at  both  ends,  her  sides  of  three-lapped  streaks 
fastened  to  a  few  knees  of  natural  crook,  she  was 
as  cranky  as  the  other  was  steady,  and  more  heavily 
burdened  with  one  person  than  the  other  with  as 
many  as  could  find  room  in  her.  Yet  the  trapper, 
standing  upright,  a  little  abaft  midships,  adroitly 
humored  her  cranky  tricks,  as  with  his  long  setting 
pole  he  drove  her  over  submerged  logs  and  coaxed 
her  through  intricate  passages  of  the  flooded  wood, 
or  with  sturdy  ax-strokes  chopped  notches  for  his 
traps,  or  set  them  as  he  squatted  by  log,  feed-bed 
and  house.  Cruising  within  shot  of  a  muskrat, 
duck  or  pickerel,  he  stooped  and  snatched  his  ready 
gun  from  the  hooks  that,  wTith  the  leather  flap  that 
covered  the  lock,  still  hold  their  places. 

In  memory  I  follow  him  as  I  saw  him  on  his 
solitary  voyage  fifty  years  ago.  Now  he  coasted 
along  a  low,  naked  shore;  now  circumnavigated  a 
low,  shaggy  island  of  button  bush,  now  thridded 
the  flooded  woods,  always  alert  for  promising 
places  to  set  trap  in,  now  stopping  to  set  one,  now 
to  lift  one  aboard  with  its  drowned  victim,  and 
then  to  reset  it.  His  course  was  marked  by  the 
inconspicuous  crotched  tally  sticks  that  an  eye  less 
practiced  than  his  would  scarcely  notice.  Now  he 
braves  the  rapid  water  of  the  broad  marsh  and 
channel  that  the  season  of  floods  has  merged  in  a 

3/0 


Old   Boats. 

lake-like  expanse.  He  lands  on  a  farther  shore  in 
some  warm  nook,  where  the  April  sunshine  comes 
and  the  keen  April  north  wind  does  not.  Here  he 
skins  his  furry  cargo,  while  the  expectant  crows, 
watching  from  safe  tree-tops,  await  their  repast, 
and  the  thronging  blackbirds  gurgle  above  him, 
and  the  basking  frogs  croak  a  lazy  chorus  around 
him.  Perhaps,  as  broken  and  useless  as  his 
stranded  craft,  he  yet  lingers  somewhere  on  these 
earthly  shores;  perhaps  has  drifted  to  the  unknown 
coast,  from  whence  no  returning  voyager  brings 
us  tidings. 

With  the  same  surroundings,  I  find  the  decaying 
hulk  of  one  of  the  most  primitive  of  water  craft 
embedded  in  alluvial  mold  and  bed-embowered  in 
royal  ferns.  Quite  at  one  with  the  unwrought  logs 
of  driftwood  that  lie  around  it,  is  a  log  canoe.  So 
clumsily  made  was  she,  an  Indian  might  have 
fashioned  a  neater  one  with  fire  and  stone  tools, 
though  the  maker  of  this  had  an  ax,  adze  and 
gouge  of  steel,  in  proof  whereof  their  marks  still 
endure.  The  butt  log  of  a  great  pine,  out  of  which 
a  sawmill  could  have  sliced  material  for  a  whole 
fleet  of  small  craft,  went  to  the  wasteful  construc- 
tion of  this  one  boat.  When  there  was  an  end  of 
chopping,  hewing  and  gouging,  the  pile  of  chips 
was  of  greater  bulk  than  the  boat. 


Hunting  Without  a  Gun. 

In  spite  of  her  crankiness  and  her  trough-like 
model,  it  could  be  said  in  her  praise  that  she  was 
a  solid,  seamless  shell,  needing  neither  oakum  nor 
pitch  to  make  her  water-tight,  and  the  wholesome 
odor  of  the  freshly  hewn  pine,  sweating  turpentine 
at  every  pore,  was  a  pleasanter  smell  than  that  of 
paint.  Her  sort  were  the  commonest  craft  on  our 
waters  when  I  was  a  boy,  yet  I  do  not  remember 
one  so  new  that  it  had  not  taken  on  the  weather- 
beaten  gray  of  age,  so  scarce  and  precious  had  suit- 
able trees  for  making  them  become.  I  recollect 
their  accustomed  navigators  as  men  also  bearing 
marks  of  age  and  long  service — old  men  who  were 
uncles  to  all  younger  generations.  They  were  not 
fishing  for  sport,  but  engaging  in  it  as  a  serious 
business  of  life,  befitting  their  bent  forms  and  in- 
tent faces. 

"Ef  you  want  tu  ketch  fish,  you  must  bait  your 
hook  wi'  necessity,"  Uncle  Stafford  would  inform 
us  as  we  gazed  enviously  over  his  gunwale  at  the 
fare  of  great  pike  lying  thick  on  the  canoe  bottom. 
He  used  a  lure  composed  of  pork  rind  and  red  ^an- 
nel,  but  no  doubt  necessity  sharpened  his  wits  to  a 
proper  judgment  of  the  length  of  line  and  regula- 
tion of  the  speed  of  the  canoe.  This  he  paddled 
so  noiselessly  that  the  wary  bittern  was  undisturbed 
by  its  passage.  In  autumn  he  prowled  as  silently 

372 


Old   Boats. 

over  the  same  course,  and  the  canoe,  nosing  her 
way  along  the  same  watery  path,  stole  upon  great 
flocks  of  ducks.  Then,  after  a  long  aim,  the  iron- 
bound  relic  of  1812  belched  out  its  palm's  breadth 
of  powder,  shot  and  tow,  and  a  roar  that  shook  the 
shores  with  slow  rebounding  echoes.  The  old  gun- 
ner shot  for  the  greatest  count  with  the  least  ex- 
penditure of  ammunition,  and  rarely  spent  half  a 
dozen  charges  in  a  day.  He  was  a  pot-hunter,  but 
an  abundant  supply  of  game  would  have  outlasted 
many  generations  of  his  kind.  Happy  he  to  depart 
while  it  still  endured,  with  no>  guilt  of  its  exter- 
mination on  his  soul. 

Like  him,  her  last  voyage  ended,  his  old  canoe 
rests  at  peace  with  all  things.  In  springtime  the 
muskrat  fearlessly  boards  her,  the  wood  duck 
perches  on  her  gunwale,  the  spawning  pike  and 
pickerel  bask  beside  her,  and  now,  when  the  thin 
autumnal  shade  blotches  her  weather-beaten  gray 
with  darker  patches,  the  grouse  drums  on  the  moss- 
grown  bow,  the  mink  makes  his  runway  along  the 
rotting  bottom,  and  the  fox  prowls  near  the  shell  of 
crumbling  wood,  unscared  by  the  taint  of  recent 
human  touch.  Amid  such  sylvan  solitude  as  the 
tree  she  was  wrought  from  made  its  slow  growth, 
the  old  craft  molders  to  the  dust  of  earth,  to  live 
again  in  the  lusty  life  of  other  trees. 

373 


THE  LAND  OF  MEMORY. 

NE  who  has  passed  the  middle 
milestone  of  his  journey,  and 
still  loves  the  fields  for  the  best 
they  have  to  give,  sees  nothing 
about  him  or  beyond  him  so 
beautiful  as  the  enchanted  land 
of  youth,  which  lies  far  behind  him,  half  veiled  in 
the  golden  haze  of  memory. 

Long  ago  he  beheld  in  the  mirage  of  youth  and 
hope  scenes  as  fair  as  these,  ever  before  him,  but 
ever  receding  as  he  advanced.  They  were  never 
nearer  than  to-morrow,  then  faded,  then  vanished. 
Now  he  knows  that  he  shall  never  find  in  all  the 
world  a  land  so  perfect  as  that  which  lies  so  far 
behind  him.  He  remembers  it  not  as  a  land  of 
the  fancy,  but  of  blissful  realities. 

Its  steadfast  cold  was  exhilarating,  its  golden 
sunshine  never  too  hot,  its  winters  never  too  long; 
its  genial  springs,  its  balmy  summers,  its  mellow 
autumns,  never  too  short,  for  the  months  of  each 
season  were  longer  than  years  are  now.  What 
greenness  of  fields,  what  profusion  of  flowers  and 
fruits,  what  gorgeousness  of  woods,  what  immacu- 
late whiteness  of  snow  the  seasons  held. 

374 


The    Land    of   Memory. 

What  delectable  hills  its  woodlands  climbed  10 
glorified  heights,  from  depths  of  sylvan  shade 
where  illusive  voices  called  and  echoed,  not  the  pip- 
ing of  thrushes  nor  murmur  of  pines  nor  liquid 
monotone  of  streams,  but  strange  and  mysterious 
voices,  perhaps  of  woodland  sprites.  There  were 
never  sweeter  songs  of  birds  nor  dreamier  lullaby 
of  wind-swept  pines,  nor  more  musical  babble  of 
brooks  spilled  from  moss-rimmed  pools  whose 
liquid  amber  was  streaked  with  silver  gleams  of 
trout  eager  to  catch  the  simplest  lure. 

Where  the  brook  crept  through  the  sprawling 
alders  unnumbered  woodcock  bored  the  fat  mold; 
where  it  joined  the  broader  stream,  hordes  of 
ducks  thronged  the  marshes  and  wrinkled  the 
broad,  slow  current  with  their  braided  wakes.  Be- 
neath, in  watery  aisles,  pillared  with  lily  stems  and 
roofed  with  purple  pads,  pickerel,  great  pike  and 
bass  swam  in  stately  procession.  There  the  musk- 
rat  built  his  domed  lodge  and  kept  the  marshes 
populous  in  the  depths  of  winter  with  his  busy,  un- 
seen, silent  tribe,  and  all  the  year  the  stealthy  mink 
—richest  prize  of  the  young  trapper — prowled 
along  the  shores,  preying  on  fish,  flesh  and  fowl. 

When  April  sun  and  shower  steeped  the  woods 
in  the  balm  of  spring,  they  boomed  far  and  near 
with  the  grouse's  drum-beat;  in  autumn,  with  the 

375 


.  Hunting   Without  a   Gun. 

frequent  thunder  of  his  flight.  Then  pigeons 
thronged  to  feasts  of  beech  mast;  squirrels  barked 
and  chattered  in  every  nut  tree;  unbroken  bevies 
of  quail  piped  in  the  stubble  fields. 

Cornfields  were  not  valued  according  to  their 
yield  of  grain,  but  according  to  the  raccoons  that 
were  attracted  to  them,  and  the  wild,  jolly  night 
hunts  they  afforded.  Every  upland  and  lowland 
cover  harbored  a  fox,  and  there  was  not  a  day  of 
the  hunting  season  that  the  tuneful  cry  of  hounds 
might  not  be  heard  swelling  and  dying  on  hill  crest 
and  in  hollow.  There  was  even  a  possibility  of 
shots  at  deer  and  bear  that  kept  one  always  hopeful 
of  such  happy  chances,  and  there  was  a  legendary 
panther,  whose  gruesome  presence  one  felt  in  the 
silent  glens  where  twilight  and  darkness  alternately 
brooded. 

All  the  happy  land  and  the  pleasant  waters  were 
an  inexhaustible  preserve  guarded  by  no  keeper, 
placarded  with  no  trespass  signs,  but  as  free  to  all 
comers  as  to  the  birds  of  passage. 

Just  as  it  was  then,  the  land  of  memory  lies  be- 
hind you  now,  traversed  by  shadowy  forms  of  com- 
rades; but  you  may  not  enter  it — only  may  you 
look  backward  upon  it  through  the  mist  of  years 
and  of  eyes  grown  dim  with  age.  Blest  is  he  who 
so  beholds  and  keeps  it  in  possession. 

376 


ANTOINE'S  VERSION  OF  EVANGELINE. 


One    evelin    we'll    set    by    de    stof-heart,    a    smokin1 

tabacca, 
As  fas'  as  de  chimley  was  smokin'  de  spreuce  an'  de 

balsam. 
M'sieu  Mumsin  he'll  mos'  mek  me  cry  wid  his  readin' 

a  story, 

Was  write,  so  he  say,  by  great  long  American  feller, 
Baout  a  Frenchmans,  he'll  lose  of  hees  gal  'long  'go, 

in  Acadie. 
You'll  hear  of  it,  prob'ly,  haow  one  gone  on  one 

sloop,  one  on  anodder, 
One  scratter  dis  way,  one  scratter  dat  way,  never  to- 

gedder, 

Till  bose  of  it  hoi',  an'  de  feller  was  ready  for  die  off. 
It  mek  me  felt  soble,  for  hear  mah  frien'  read  it, 

sof'ly, 
For  it  saoun'  lak  de  vowse  of  mah  mudder,  w'en  he 

sing  to  me, 
uDor'  p'tite,"  dat  tarn  Ah'll  was  bebby,  an  lie  half 

sleep  on  hees  bosoms, 
One  ear  an'  one  heye  hopen  for  lislin  to  what  dar  be 

go  on, 
Tudder  shut  saoun,  fas'  sleep  on  de  breas'  of  mah 

mudder ; 
It  bring  it  all  back,  as  Ah'll  hear  it  an'  see  it  dem  day 

tarn, 

377 


Hunting  Without   a   Gun. 

De  bump  of  de  bin'  leg  an'  fore  leg  of  de  chair  on  de 

hard  floor, 
As  she  rocks  me,  "Dor'  p'tite,  dor'  p'tite,"  all  de  tarn 

sing  mah  hoi'  mudder. 

De  humbly  bee  bumblin'  all  over  de  marigol'  posy, 
De   bobolink    ringing   hees    bells    'bove    de    medder 

where  hayin' 
De  mans  was,  an'  de  wheat  fiel'  where  hwomans  dress 

all  in  blue  gown 
Was  scoop  for  reap  off  de  grain  shinin'  more  yaller 

as  gold  was. 
On  de  river,  a  Hingin  was  paddle   his  cannoe   more 

lazy 
An'  slow  as  de  move  of  de  water,  an'  o'er  de  fiel'  an' 

de  river 

De  blue  sky  scoopin'  daown  to  de  big  hwood. 
So  it  come  back  to  mah  rembler  wid  de  nowse  of  de 

readin', 
An'  mek  me  feel  kan'  o'  oncomf'able  happy. 

Wen  he'll  finish  hees  read,  Ah'll  tink  while  Ah'll 

finish  mah  smokin', 
Haow  Ah'll  mek  it  come  off  grea'  deal  more  better 

for  pleasant 

'F  Ah  was  dat  great  long  American  feller  dat  wrote  it, 
For  Gabriel,  Evangeline  an'  all  dar  was  hear  of  de 

story, 
Gabriel  was  dat  kan'  o'  mans  Solem  Briggs  was  call 

it  philosophy. 
Wen  de  pos'  hoffice  an'  telegrab  ant  bring  it  no 

letter, 

378 


Antoine's    Version    of    Evangeline. 

Wen  cle  sloop  an'  de  stimboat  an'  de  railroad  ant 

bring  it  hees  gal  back, 
Nor  took  heem  to  de  place  where  Evangeline  was  be 

a  stoppin', 
An'  he  fan  aout  he  can'  fan  aout  where  she  was  have 

been  gone  to, 
He'll  mek  aout  hees  min'  dat  ev'ryt'ing  come  to  de 

feller  dat  waitens, 
He  goin'  do  dat.     An'  bombye  Evangeline  be  comin' 

to  heem. 
So  he'll  sharp  off  hees  haxe  an'  beegin  for  chaup  aout 

some  clearin'. 
Every  nowse  of  de  win'  dat  he  hear  in  de  taup  of  de 

tree  blow, 
Every  nowse  of  de  tree  dat  he  chaup  an'  come  tomble 

hover, 
Dey  say :  "Bombye  Evangeline  comin',  bombye  she'll 

comin'." 
De  bird  from  de  sous  come,  de  bird  from  de  nort' 

come,  dey  tol'  heem  de  sem  t'ing; 
De  wil'  geese  draggin'  de  sky  wid  hees  harrer  in 

spring  tarn, 
In  de  fall,  de  black  string  of  crow  pullin'  de  las'  one 

to  de  sea-shore, 
All  to!'  heem  dat  "Bombye,  hees  leetly  gal  comin' ' 

from  somewhere ; 
So  he'll  buil'  for  it  up  dar  a  nice  leetly  lawg  haouse 

all  smooze  off 
De  side,  an'  cover  wid  whitewash,  an'  notch  all  de 

aidge  of  de  shingle, 
An'  under  de  t'ree  window  he  sow  some  marigol' 

posy. 

379 


Hunting   Without  a   Gun. 

But  bes'  t'ing  of  all  he  feel  plump  of,  was  bed  of 

beautiful  onion, 
All  summer  he  caffly  weed  it,  in  fall  it  was  beeg  as 

tea-sasser ; 
Den  he  pull  it  an'  braid  it,  in  long  string  an'  hang  it 

on  side  of  de  haouse  up, 
Where  blow  by  de  breeze  of  de  evelin,  de  pref-fume 

was  carry  long  way  off, 
An'  w'en  he  look  of  it,  he'll  said :    "Haow  Ah'll  weesh 

dat  leetly  gal  comin' 
For  help  me  heat  off  dat  onion.     Prob'ly  she'll  t'ink 

Ah'll  fregit  it, 
Ant  rembler  for  love,  but  Ah'll  love  it  dat  gal,  more 

as  onion, 
An'  mah  heart  grow    lonesick    for  waitin'    more    as 

waitin'  onion  for  supper." 

All  'lone  in  de  dark  hwood  poor  Evangeline  wander ; 
All  de  star  an'  de  moon  from  de  sky,  de  nort'  win* 

was  blow  off, 

An'  haowl  lak  some  wolf,  an'  bite  her  wid  col'  toof ; 
De  black  cloud  spill  hees  rain  drop  daown  on  her  an' 

mek  her  more  col'er, 
De  win'  haowl  more  wolfy  an'  laoud  an'  bite  her  more 

harder, 
An'  somet'ing  scareful  creep    toward    her    in    ev'ry 

black  shadder; 
An'  her  heart  was  grow  lonesick   for  all  de   scare 

t'ing  raoun'  her, 
Her  heart  was   so  lonesick  afore  for  all  her  long 

lookin'. 

380 


Antoine's    Version    of    Evangeline. 

Just  w'en  she  was  ready  for  give  up,  so  scare',  so 

tire',  so  honger, 
She'll  feel  of  de  smell  of  onion,  an'  rise  tip  riffresh  an' 

go  on. 
T'rough  de  snatch  of  de  brier  dat  ketch  an'  tear  off 

her  clo's  off, 
T'rough  de  switch  of  de  bushes  dat  wheep  her  lak 

forty  hoi'  school-mom, 
'Gainst  de  bump  of  de  tree  dat  was  paoun'  her  lak 

maul  drivin'  wedges, 
She  foller  dat  smell,  lak  haoun'  was  chasin'  de  rab- 

beet ; 
An'  bombye  it  brought  her  to  clearin',  an'  she'll  seen 

light  in  winder. 
'F  you'll  ever  been  hongry  all  day,  an'  come  home  for 

heat  some  mud-turkey, 
'F  you'll  ever  be  dry  all  a  hot  day,  den  fan  de  col' 

spring  a  bubblin', 
Den  you  know  haow  she  feel,  w'en  she  faint  on  de 

door  an'  it  hopen, 
An'  she  fall  on  de  harm  of  her  Gabriel.    If  you'll  ant, 

Ah'll  can  tol'  you. 

Wai,  den  dey  was  marry,  an'  leeve  happy  togedder, 
But  prob'ly  dey  was  tarn  w'en  dey  weesh  dey  ant  fan 

one  annudder. 


381 


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